


(false) confidence

by DCKIM



Series: (ASIDE) [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, F/M, Illustrations, Morally Grey Characters, Normalization of Violence, Past Abuse, Plot With Porn, Post-Canon, a more realistic view of Guzma and the systems that have failed him, fast burn, more detailed tags at the start of every chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 37,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25834081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCKIM/pseuds/DCKIM
Summary: She comes at night, with the rain, pink-lemonade hair plastered to her skull, carrying only a small case of luggage and a soaked duffel bag... And she's tall, maybe as tall as he is. He didn’t see it when she was sliding off the charizard, but now, next to Plumeria, she cuts an imposing figure, dressed in black, with a service smile that doesn’t even try to reach her eyes.--------A somewhat realistic study of two fuck-ups trying to find equal footing.Fic is completely written; updates Mondays.Chapter 8 (9/28/2020): a finale date. two fuck ups manage to find equal footing
Relationships: Guzma (Pokemon)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: (ASIDE) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874485
Comments: 18
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: violence, mentions of murder

To be fair, any chance of a polite conversation is launched out the fucking window when she brusquely closes the laptop on his fingers. 

He looks up, incredulous, but Plumeria doesn’t move her hand away from the scratched-up backing. 

“Can I fuckin’ help ya?” Guzma demands. She opens her mouth to say something but hesitates, the words stuck in her throat. His eyebrows shoot toward his hairline, and he reflexively jerks his gaze down to her nails to check if she’s been biting them. A bloom of dread curls up in his gut when he sees the chipped polish. 

And to be fair, a year or two ago, he probably would have caught that within the hour she started chewing on them. Probably would have sat her down so he could troubleshoot the only other goddamn person holding Team Skull together. But today, — and he really does try to remember — he can’t seem to recall how long she’s had the leftovers of that burnt orange color, or if she’s been sleeping nights okay. Fucking hell, he doesn’t even know if she’s been stress cleaning her room or if —

“I hired someone,” she states. “A friend.”

“Finally found someone t’ alphabetize your freakish pokédoll collection?” he _absolutely does not mean to say_. 

“I’ve hired someone,” she repeats, ignoring him, even though they both know that the dolls are ordered chronologically, and then by fluff capacity, whatever the fuck that means. 

“Good for ya.” He tries to open his laptop again, gently, because it’s on its last legs. “Invite me t’ the weddin’.”

“Could you take this seriously _?_ ” Plumes snaps, but Guzma only sneers. 

“Hired someone? With what money, sis? Wanna flip a coin t’ see who doesn’t eat again?”

Plumes hesitates for a second time, and the unease in his stomach roars into something more deadly. 

“We’re compensating her with food and board,” she finally says. At that, he stands up, damn the pain shooting up his back. He’s always towered over her, but Plumes glares back steadily, hands on her hips, craning her head to meet his eyes. 

“Ya better be fuckin’ jokin’, Plumes. We don’t do that kinda shit.” He tries to keep his voice down, but he knows he’s edging into shouting territory. Plumes sets her jaw. “People can’t live off fuckin’ Spam an’ wifi. We can’t pay her. She can’t work here.”

“She got disowned. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Tell her t’ get a job. A real one.” He collapses back into his tiny folding chair, groaning when his shoulders seize up. It’s been humid and overcast for _days_. Bulu forbid he get one fucking hour where it doesn’t feel like half of him’s on fire. 

When Plumes hesitates for the third time, the nerves in his stomach convert straight into anger. 

“Could ya fuckin’ spit it out already?!” he snarls. 

“Don’t _yell_ at me, asshole,” she retorts sharply, crossing her arms, eyes blazing gold. “Look! Ever since Tippy went back home, we don’t have anybody who even remotely knows how to use the pokécenter. You _know_ how much of our money goes into healing stuff, and that’s not even counting the ferry rides to Tapu Village.”

“If she’s a pokénurse, she can find a job literally anywhere else.”

“She’s not a pokénurse. She’s an herbalist.”

Guzma pauses at that, then lets out a humorless bark of laughter, finally opening his laptop up again. It’s still missing a key from the last time he threw it. “If she’s an herbalist, she _really_ can find a job anywhere else.”

“She can’t,” Plumes says. “She has a criminal record.”

Guzma doesn’t even try to hide the sigh that comes pouring out of the depths of his soul. He feels like he sighs for ten minutes straight, rubbing his face with his hands, smearing the day-old eyeshadow. 

“Misdemeanor or felony?” he finally asks after kicking the leg of his headboard a couple times. 

“Felony.”

He wants to sigh again, but instead, threads a hand into his hair and yanks until he can feel a few strands break. She frowns at that, but this is her fault, so he doesn’t know why she’s complaining. 

“Ya want me t’ hire your criminal friend with the zero amount of money we have?”

“I don’t need you to hire her. I’ve already hired her. She’s coming tonight.”

Guzma jumps to his feet, grabs the small bedside table, and slams it into the wall, cratering the plaster in a cloud of dust. He doesn’t stop until the wiring is exposed. Doesn’t stop until the table falls apart in his hands and thumps to the floor in pieces. When he whirls around to face Plumeria, she hasn’t even flinched. 

“ _Ya aren’t fuckin’ allowed t’ make decisions like that!_ ” he jabs a finger in her face. “ _You’re the fuckin’ admin! I’m the boss! What gives ya the goddamn right —_ ”

“Team Skull is disbanded!” she shouts back “I’m not anybody’s admin, lolo! The last time I checked, we’re just two idiots trying to take care of seven smaller —”

“— _t’ hire someone without tellin’ me?! Tell her to turn back, or I swear t’ fuckin’ Arceus_ —”

“— that you’ll what?! Stop making money? Spend a year face down in your bed? I’m trying my fucking _best_ , Guz, but I can’t do this shit by myself! We don’t have Aether’s money anymore, you’re not battling anymore, you’re not doing _anything_ anymore! I can’t feed the sibs with just — tourist prize money! If you’d put in even the tiniest bit of effort, maybe this would be different! You —” 

Guzma recoils, because _of course_ , of course, of course, there it is, as it always is. The overlay of a cutting baritone, the superimposement of a high, lilting soprano, the chorus of two voices that drowns out the crack of concern in Plumeria’s exclamation and replaces it with disgust, disappointment, dirt. Plumeria stops abruptly, but to him, she isn’t in the room anymore. There’s the clack of dress shoes on marble. There’s the ghost of tuberose perfume, congealing in his nasal cavity. His back _hurts._

“Guz, I didn’t mean —”

“ _Get the fuck out!_ ” he roars. He punches another hole into the already checkered wall behind the rusty chair that replaced his throne. Finds a support beam, something that won’t give, and smashes it with his fists until the neon paint disappears under the blood. When he looks up, Plumeria is gone, truly gone, and his knuckles ache. 

“Should’ve fuckin’ paid attention t’ the fuckin’ nails,” he rasps. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

She treads in later, opening the door soundlessly. The room is dark except the watery sunlight slanting in from the windows, shimmering weakly on the dusty, empty wine bottles scattered on the first shelf. 

“I’m sorry, Guz,” she says.

“‘S fine,” he grunts, splayed on the bed, arm thrown over his eyes.

“I didn’t mean —”

“I said _it’s fine_ , Plumes. Lay off. Sorry for yellin’. An’ the other shit.”

“Does your back hurt?”

“Dumb question.”

“Do you want a heating pad?”

He almost says no out of spite, but just moving his arm makes the back of his neck scream. She brings the big one, and helps him sit up so she can lay it flat on the mattress. Tucks the comforter around him when he flops down. The subdued way she scrapes away at the dried blood on his knuckles makes his eyes sting. He pulls his hand away.

“‘M gonna try t’ sleep.”

“Okay, Guz. Sorry.”

He doesn’t, and stares at the ceiling until the afternoon creeps away, fending off the apparition of his father who stands at the foot of his bed, hair perfectly gelled back, judging. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

She comes at night, with the rain, pink-lemonade hair plastered to her skull, carrying only a small case of luggage and a soaked duffel bag. The charizard that gave her a ride gives a low, displeased rumble at the downpour, lashing his tail back and forth, but when she leans in closer to his horns and does... something, he cocks his head in attention, his slit pupils adjusting to focus on her face. Plumes runs out to greet her first and the storm drowns out their conversation. 

Guzma closes his eyes and leans back into the wall, under the eaves of the now somewhat-cleaned pokécenter. Technically, he didn’t want to come. But it’s not like he has anything else to do other than beat the shit outta his pillows or rhythmically drum his head against the haphazardly repaired end table. And someone had to watch these fools to make sure they didn’t steal all the lightbulbs again. 

“You okay, Boss?” Noah asks uneasily, his bandana pulled down around his neck. 

“Not your boss,” Guzma mutters. 

“You're always the boss, Boss!” Naomi chirps. She wraps a hand around his bicep and gives him a shake. He reaches out to sling an arm around her neck so he can ruffle her hair into a messy bird’s nest while she shrieks in laughter. Noah headbutts his other side, so Guzma grapples him into a light chokehold. 

“Hey, numbskulls! This is our new herbalist.” Plumes strides towards them, wringing the water out of her shirt. “Wen, this is Guzma. That’s Noah, Naomi. You’ll meet the other five sooner or later.”

And Wen, Wen’s tall, maybe as tall as he is. He didn’t see it when she was sliding off the charizard, but now, next to Plumeria, she cuts an imposing figure, dressed in black, with a service smile that doesn’t even try to reach her eyes. 

“Hello,” she says, and nothing else. Her voice is husky and quiet, almost lost in the rain. 

“Whassup?” he drawls. The two sibs don’t say anything, suspicious, and he has to dig an elbow into their sides for them to wheeze out a greeting. She nods. 

“They helped clean out the pokécenter. It’s not done but we’ll come back tomorrow to finish.”

“I can do the rest. Thank you,” Wen says. She puts one hand over her heart and one hand over her stomach. Bows slightly. Forty-five degrees. A wave of vertigo rips him eleven years into the past, and he has to fake a yawn to cover up his grimace. 

“Aw, Wenny, we’re out of high school,” Plumeria grins pushing a strand of pink hair away from Wen’s face. The iron smile gentles into something more sincere, more fond, before it flits back to neutrality. 

“What are you kids doing,” a tired voice interrupts them. They all turn to see Nanu leaning on his windowsill, a meowth kneading into his hair. 

“Fuck off, old man,” Guzma says and flips him off. The twins quadruple copycat him, pulling all kinds of nasty faces. Nanu just sighs. 

“Something legal, I hope?”

“I greet the Kahuna of this island. May Bulu guide your actions.” And this time, she does the full fucking traditional bow, kneeling in the rain, forehead and fingers on the pavement. Noah grabs Guzma’s jacket in confusion and Guzma thinks about kicking into her ribs and breaking all of them. 

“...I watch what they watch. I am theirs to keep.” Nanu repeats her small bow awkwardly, hand over his stomach, hand over his heart. “I’m not much for formalities. There’s no need for that. You the new neighbor?”

“Yes.” She stands up and keeps her head slightly bowed. Nanu scratches his head, still uncomfortable. The meowth hisses and bats his hand away so she can resume messing up his hair.

“Well, let’s chat when we can. Got some questions for ya.”

“I said fuck _off_ , dumbass Kahuna. She’s just our fuckin’ herbalist. Stop puttin’ your shit nose into our business.” If Guzma could flip him off with his toes, he would. It doesn’t help that the wind is picking up, driving the rain into his face. It’s warm — it’s always warm in Alola — but it gets into his eyes and pisses him off. He’s going to have to change is fucking clothes _again_. 

“Then get off my lawn, kid,” Nanu says, and retreats to close the shutters. Guzma swears, and shuffles one inch to the right, stepping out of Nanu’s side of the grass. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

His plan was to keep as far away from Wen as possible, and then fire her when it turned out she was a shit herbalist. But that falls apart as soon as Plumes invites her over for movie night, not even twenty-four hours later. The sibs drag their couches and blankets and pillows to the main hall where Guzma hooks up his computer to a projector. Part of the banister clips into the picture, but it’s fine, it’s good. Or it’s good until Plumes plops onto the couch next time him, pulling Wen down to her other side, still dressed in black. 

“Whassup?” Guzma flashes his teeth.

Wen nods and smiles that stupid smile. Soap sticks his head out from underneath the blanket at Guzma’s feet, curious.

“Oh,” Wen murmurs, and makes a rapid clicking noise in her throat. The golisopod jerks up like the charizard did, and after a moment, clicks back, unsure. When she puts out her hand, he crawls closer, too lazy to completely get up, and puts his giant claw in her brown hand. “You’re so handsome,” she praises, so quietly that Guzma has to strain to hear it. Her palms stroke over Soap’s hard shell, scraping something off here, prodding something there. She dips under the overlap of his carapace, and Guzma almost laughs when she smells the dust that’s smeared on her fingers. 

In the flickering half-light of _La La Land,_ her face looks alive for once, even if her brows are furrowed in concentration. 

“He good?” Guzma asks. She gives an ambivalent hum; he hates her a little more. She rummages through her satchel and uncorks a small vial to pour a little of the peppery, citrusy liquid onto a handkerchief. 

“What’s that?” he growls, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Cleaner.” She swipes the cloth under each of the seams of Soap’s carapace. 

“Don’t fuckin’ chat much, huh?”

Plumeria kicks his ankle and he shoves her back.

“No.” Wen folds up the material and drops it into a jar, which she seals. 

“She’s never talked much,” Plumes defends. 

“You’re the new herbalist, right?” Ava whispers, leaning back from where she’s sitting on the ground, curled up in a nest of blankets with her zubat. 

“She is,” Plumes answers, “She’ll help you if you need something, Ava.”

“Um, well, Blueberry’s been kinda down lately,” Ava says, manually flapping the zubat’s limp wings. She licks Ava’s face once, listlessly. “She’s been, like, trying to eat grass? I tried to see if it was a specific type, but they all kinda look the same to me.”

Soap tries to stealthily wriggle his huge torso onto Wen’s lap, but she pushes him off firmly, with a small hiss through her teeth. Reaches out and takes Blueberry into her arms. The pokémon starts to fight, displeased, but Wen spits into her hand and sticks it into the zubat’s mouth, who, after a moment, stops struggling. 

“Ew,” Ava wrinkles her nose. The zubat’s ears droop, deflating like a sad volleyball. “What was that for?”

“Telling her I’m a friend.” Wen snaps her fingers back and forth, which makes Blueberry perk up slightly, but not much. “What do you feed her?”

“Um, the kibble we have at home?”  
“Aether’s brand,” Plumes supplies. 

“Anything else?”

“She hunts wimpods a lot.” Ava looks guiltily at Guzma, who shrugs half-heartedly. Circle of life and shit. 

“Anything else?” Wen repeats, patiently, insistently.

“Like, a bit of human food? She has a little bit of what I eat every day, but less than, like, my pinky.” Ava rubs her forehead, thinking. “Oh! Oranges! She eats oranges. I told one of the doctors that visited from Aether that she gets sick a lot, and the doctor said to feed natural vitamin C for cold prevention. Um, I also checked with the Malie pokécenter, and they said it should be fine…” She trails off at the frown on Wen’s face. “Is it not fine?”

“Stop feeding her oranges for a while. No wimpods, either.” She brings Bluberry up to her ear, closes her eyes, and listens. A minute passes while she holds her breath. “Pick some of the grass she tries to eat, and bring it to me. We’ll see in a week.” 

Ava receives the limp zubat and fidgets with her two tails. 

“I thought… Shouldn’t it be okay if the doctor said so? And the Malie pokécenter?”

“We’ll see in a week,” Wen says. The movie isn’t over but she stands up, picking up her satchel. 

“Bedtime?” Plumeria asks lightly. It’s only fucking nine.

“I’ll text you in the morning, Gummy,” Wen says. There’s that muted smile, the one that flares a bit brighter when she looks at Plumes. “Goodnight, Guzma. Ava.” She leaves without another word. 

“ _Gummy_?” Guzma taunts, while Ava cocoons herself and Blueberry in blankets again. 

“Shut up,” Plumes says and smacks him with a pillow. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Does she always smile like that?” Guzma asks into the shadows, a warm, dark gradient that ends at a cloyster nightlight. Junu clutches Guzma’s hand fitfully, even in his sleep, because Junu is only twelve and shouldn’t be here at _all_. Hell, none of them should be here, in this run down, damp place that even Tapu Bulu forgot about. 

_You were leaving,_ Junu had sobbed. He had wanted both of them here, to stay until he woke up. So they’ll stay, at least for a bit. 

“Who?” Plumeria questions. 

“Wen.”

“What does she smile like?” 

Guzma does his best impression of a customer service smile, pacifying and condescending at the same time. Plumes can’t see well in the darkness, but sees enough to scowl. 

“I told you we met at finishing school, right?” 

“Yeah, your wack-ass high school.”

“I attended for _my_ high school years. But it was an all-ages boarding school. She’d been there since fourth grade. Apparently, she only saw her parents during the summer.” Plumes tries to find a position where the headboard isn’t digging into the back of her skull. Gives up. “Wen’s always been reclusive. But she used to be a bit brighter, I guess.” 

“What’s reclusive mean?”

“Are you dumb?”

“Fuck off.”

“Are you actually dumb? What’s wrong with you? How do you not know what reclusive means?”

“I got a great ass, a’ight? Can’t have it all, sis.”

Plumes snorts. “It means, like, antisocial.”

“So she graduated an’ then went straight t’ prison?” Truthfully, the bones in his wrist ache from holding Junu for so long. But Arceus strike him dead if he’d disappoint one more person in his pathetic life. Plumes shakes her head. 

“No, she went to pokénursing school,” she says softly. “I think she was doing really well.”

“But then?”

“Involuntary manslaughter charge. And assault.”

“For what?”

She’s silent for a long time. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s upsetting. And I don’t think it’s my place to say.”

“‘S a’ight,” Guzma says. He pries his hand from Junu’s grasp to pat Plumes on the shoulder. He won’t push. Doesn’t like seeing her this way, grinding her teeth like she wants to bite into something.

“She was a really good friend. Is. I’m glad I can help her now.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

He finds Nanu standing on his lanai staring intently towards Wen’s pokécenter. The persian at his feet has a tail protectively curled around his master’s legs. Guzma doesn’t peg Nanu as a peeper, but Bulu knows that he’s never been the best judge of character. 

“Yo, ya fuckin’ pervert,” Guzma calls out, striding over to the lanai. Nanu turns to look at him.

“Up early, aren’t ya?” he responds drily, but Guzma’s not gonna be the one to tell him he hasn’t actually slept. 

“The fuck ya lookin’ at, old man?” 

When he rounds the corner of the center, he sees Wen beating the shit out of a punching bag hung up on a sturdy branch. The sport bandages wrapped around her knuckles are starting to seep blood, but she doesn’t seem to notice, eyes focused on what’s in front of her. Sweat and rain drip down her chin onto her black tank. 

She’s also flatter than a board but Guzma knows enough not to say that shit out loud.

“She’s been going at it for a while,” Nanu muses. The persian meows and licks his paw daintily. 

“The hell? How long?”

“I’ve been here for half an hour. So longer than that.”

“An’ ya haven’t stopped her?”

Nanu shrugs.

“She seems to know what she’s doing. Thought this was stress-relief. Now I’m not so sure.” He steps out into the drizzle first, shooing back the persian when he tries to follow. The pokémon meows crossly and waits with Guzma, who shoves his hands into his pockets. “Wen,” Nanu says lightly, stopping far enough to be out of reach. “Wenny.” 

He takes one step closer, and Wen instantly pivots on her heel to lash out at him. Maybe he was expecting this, as he redirects the blow with a strong forearm. The kick is harder to block, but he does, with a grunt, and hooks a foot behind her ankle to pull her off balance. She stumbles, recovers with a spin, and launches herself at him. But she misjudges his height, and hurls herself into his torso. From there, he simply whirls her into the ground, twisting her arm up and back, not enough to hurt, but enough to pin her in place. She gives a couple of kicks, which connect with Nanu’s back, but she’s too tall for it to really hurt. 

“Wenny,” Nanu says, his voice still just as steady. 

“I keep forgettin’ you’re a fuckin’ ex-cop,” Guzma groans. 

“Wen.” 

“Yes, sir?” she responds. 

“You alright?”

“I’m fine, sir,” she says, and spits out sand. 

“No formalities, remember?” Nanu chides. He slowly releases her to step back. 

She lays on the ground for a minute and then sits up, wiping the mud off her face. Nanu helps her to her feet. 

“You alright?” He has to lean back to look at her.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You were pretty lost there, kid.”

“I forgot to set my alarm. It won’t happen again.”

“You’re fuckin’ bleedin’,” Guzma points out. Wen smooths a hand down the front of her stomach, alarmed, then looks at her knuckles. 

“Ah.”

She’s covered with muck and grass and petals and all she does is smile flavorlessly. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“She’s got a shit ton of scars on her arms,” Guzma says, chomping down a mouthful of dry cereal because milk is fucking expensive. Plumes almost forgets to reply through her disgust. 

“Who?”

“Wen.”

“What, like self-harm?”

“Nah. Bites an’ scratches an’ shit.”

“Why are you staring at her arms, lolo?”

“Don’t wanna hear that comin’ from your gay ass.”

“Big Sis!” Ava comes running in, Blueberry fluttering behind her. Plumes loosens the chokehold she has on him, and Guzma takes the opportunity to flee, rubbing his neck. “Blueberry’s flying again! You snagged such a bomb herbalist!”

Plumes shoots him a look. He ignores it and pours cereal straight into his mouth. One less bowl to wash, right?

“Well, make sure to update Wen in the morning.”

Ava salutes to her, bright-eyed, and bounds away. The zubat follows her, equally energetic now that her internal systems aren’t fucked up. Did he have that much energy when he was sixteen? Arceus, his memory was a bitch. Tapu Bulu, his back hurt. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

She’s already drowsy before the movie’s half-done, blinking in and out of a doze. It’s only 10 PM and Guzma can’t concentrate on the spells flashing across the screen. He watches her rub her eyes sleepily, knuckles still stained red and purple, scabbed over. They match with his. 

“Why’d the oranges fuck up Blueberry?”

She looks at him, surprised, like she forgot he was sitting next to her. Plumes pauses texting and peers over the top of her phone. 

“Pardon?”

“Ava’s zubat? How’d ya know it was the oranges?”

“I didn’t. Don’t,” Wen says. “Not for sure.”

He leans forward on his knees, propping his head up on one hand to study her. She makes steady eye contact with him.

“Yeah, but ya still called it. So what were ya thinkin’?”

“Vitamin C affects iron retention in some flying types. Shell-bearing pokémon are rich in iron. The zubat had a fast heart rate. I thought it could be an iron overdose, but it could be a coincidence.”

“How come Malie’s pokécenter didn’t catch it?”

And that makes her hands jolt in her lap. Plumeria catches the movement, and shoots Guzma a nasty look, but he still waits for an answer. In his peripherals, her thumbs start to fidget.

“Pokécenters depend on your pokémon being healthy to bring them back to that previous state of health. Underlying or chronic conditions aren’t often caught.”

“But ‘s not like Blueberry jus’ went through a machine. Nurses should’ve caught somethin’.”

“Nurses… are only as good as their education. If they had been… recommended… for the position, their field experience may be lacking.” She picks her way gingerly through a minefield of words.

“So like nepotism shit.”

“How,” Plumeria asks, astonished, “do you know what nepotism means, but not reclusive?”

“It’s just a word, Gummy,” Wen cuts in before Guzma can spit back something scathing. Plumes blinks and then laughs loud enough for some of the sibs to look back at her. 

“You haven’t changed much, Wenny,” Plumes grins, relaxing back to prop her feet on Wen’s lap. Guzma almost misses it, but he catches the tail end of the sweetest laugh before Wen covers her mouth politely. Still, her eyes crinkle at the corners as she starts to massage Plumeria’s feet. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Even when the credits roll, even when the sibs are splayed over the floor like starmie, snoring, Guzma stares blankly at the wall. Awake. Thinking. 

Because, in the end, he knows crawling back to his father will kill him — but maybe not before he can send a good chunk of money in Plumes’s direction. He wonders if it’s worth the cost. The posturing, the pedantry, the sucking-up. The endless days studying, the moving finish line, his worth tied to a seat as a captain.

He could get a job, he guesses. One that has nothing to do with battling. There isn’t any shame in that. He’s not a shameful person.

 _And live as a failure,_ the memory of Lusamine purrs into his ear, close enough to feel the phantom pain of manicured nails digging into his arm. He wonders if the voice will ever go away. 

But then, he feels something rest on his shoulder, something real. Guzma looks down to see a pink head. From this close, he can see the two freckles under her left eye. 

_Like a ladybug,_ he thinks. Plumes usually leans into his chest. The sibs, into his solar plexus. But Wen is tall enough to nudge until she’s resting against the crook of his neck, hands still folded cordially in her lap. There’s the puff of a serene exhale.

He still doesn’t sleep, not until later, but at least for now, when he closes his eyes, most of his thoughts end in ladybugs. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

His back burns when he wakes up on the couch, like fire trapped under his skin, like four-inch nails being driven into the space between every vertebrae. He tries to get up and has to stop for a moment for the prickle of tears to subside. On good days, it’s just his upper back. But today, it’s spread to his shoulder and his neck, sweeping down to the sides of his legs. Even his hands tingle as he flexes them cautiously.

He takes a deep breath. Another. Laughs hoarsely. His throat is dry. So that’s how it’s gonna be today, huh? Something nibbles on his jacket, and his ariados chitters sympathetically. 

“Shut it, Hoike,” he says, and bares his teeth to stand in one motion, just to get it over with, because it’s gonna hurt either way. Thank Arceus the sibs have cleared out of the room, so no one has to see him swaying on his feet, gripping the arm of the couch. 

The closer he gets to the kitchen, the louder the sound of running water becomes. A refrain of “Boss!” greets him when he enters. 

“Hey, Boss! Good morning! Wen bought us pinap berries! It’s —”

“— I helped Wen vacuum this morning and —”

“— Boss! Boss! It’s actually pretty sunny so we opened the —” 

As the sibs clamour around him, he sees that the floor has been swept. The windows are thrown open, and the sun stamps blocks of light onto the floor. Every stool has been neatly pushed into its spot, underneath the stainless-steel tables. 

The last time he went to a doctor when he was fifteen, they told him the pain was a nerve thing, and not psychosomatic. But here, where Wen efficiently washes the dishes at the sink, where the sunshine hits his back, where the stuffy smell of the building has been replaced by sea salt and bleach, he swears he feels his pain spike infinitely. 

So he does the only thing he can, and walks over to the dry dishes to pick one up and smash it on the floor. 

“Guzma.”

He doesn’t wait for Wen to say anything further. The next dish smashes just as easily. And the next. And the next. All of the cups shatter into pieces that skitter under the fridge, difficult to reach. He inhales, comfortable, comfortable, comfortable, the evidence of his creation scattered around him. Nobody can take this away from him. Not his father, not Lusamine, not this blank-faced bitch who stands in front of him, her fingers twitching.

When he stops to glance up, all the sibs look down into their bowls and plates, eating silently. 

“I... apologize,” Wen says. “I must have overstayed my welcome.”

“Guzma!” Plumeria shouts, storming into the room with Akari at her heels. Guzma fixes his gaze on Akari, who shrinks into herself, picking at the end of her braid nervously. She must’ve gone to tattle. Plumes steps in front of her, seething. “Guzma, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothin’. Dunno who the fuck decides t’ come to ‘nother person’s house an’ change shit around, though.”

“She was just cleaning!”

“It’s fine. Gummy, it’s fine. I need to get going anyway.”

“Ya sure fuckin’ do,” he says, and drains all the water in Noah’s cup in one breath. He doesn’t watch her leave; he’s already memorized the curve of that meaningless smile.

“Why’d have to do that, G?” Plumes asks, furious. She reaches out to seize his shoulder, but he smacks her hand away. 

“No one’s askin’ ya t’ stay,” he says. And that hurts her enough. 

“Oh, Guz.” Her voice breaks on his name. She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, shakes her head. Walks after Wen. 

“Jus’ leave it,” he says, when Junu tries to pick up the shards of glass and pottery on the floor. “It’s vibin’.” 

Junu laughs weakly, and still moves to get the broom. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

He doesn’t expect to see Wen again, not so soon, not just one day later, vacuuming the hallway outside his room. He almost thinks he’s dreaming, watching her move back and forth past the other doors. She only turns when he yanks the plug out of the socket. 

“Whassup?” he grins humorlessly. 

“Good aftern—” she’s cut off when he stalks into her space, caging her against a wall. 

“Y’know, at this point, kinda think ya jus’ want ya boy’s attention, girlie.” Her breath smells like salt and mint. “How ‘bout ya drop the game an’ tell me what the fuck ya doing back in my house, huh?”

“...Mr. Guzma. I couldn’t possibly,” she starts, unusually emphatic, her back perfectly straight, as always, “care less about you drowning in the abject mountain of filth you call a home. But, in case you haven’t noticed, your golisopod is growing mold underneath its carapace, half the smaller pokémon here are starting to develop respiratory problems from the dust and fungus in the carpet, and all of you, except Plumeria, smell like you leave your clothes to rot in the laundry machine. So I don’t know what she told you about me,” and here she steps forward, making Guzma step back to avoid the sudden bite of sharp steel pressing against his stomach. Even through his shirt, it’s cold. Her voice vibrates in his diaphragm, “but let me take this chance to clarify: I killed someone who decided throwing metapods off a bridge was a funny idea. Someone stopped me before I could do the same to his partner. I don’t think this requires such a drastic conclusion.” 

It’s the longest he’s ever heard her speak, and when she steps back, he can see it was a hunting knife she had pointed at his guts. He scratches the back of his head while she watches him with a strangely familiar fury in her eyes. He doesn’t really know what to say. 

“What does abject mean?” he asks. 

“It’s an adjective. It means without pride or dignity,” she answers without missing a beat. 

“An’ drastic?” 

“Also an adjective. Extreme.” She doesn’t make fun of him. She just fills him in, even if she’s mad. Patiently. Willingly. Angrily, and — oh, something finally clicks in his head. He’s seen those eyes before, the fire that blazes inside, hoping, praying that his opponent will hit him so he can beat the shit out of them. It’s like staring into a mirror. 

He rolls his neck and sighs. 

“Look, I’m not good with people touchin’ my stuff. Havin’ things clean an’ orderly an’ shit makes —”

“I’m not your therapist.”

He stops at that, then bares his teeth in a grin and pinches the bridge of his nose.  
“A’ight. What d’ya suggest?”

At that, she falters, confused. Her spine loses some of its rigidity. “...Rip up the carpet.”

“Don’t have money t’ refloor the entire house.”

“Then don’t. Take out the carpet until you reach concrete. If you seal it properly, it’ll work fine as a floor. I can make some calls to artisans willing to help you at a reduced price.” She pauses for a moment, re-sheathing her knife and shoving it into her satchel. Her voice softens. “I can also help with some of the cost if —”

“Nah,” he interrupts. “I’ll take those reduced fees, though.”

“Okay.”

“A’ight.”  
They examine each other. If Guzma slouches, they’re the same height. 

“I’m not your therapist —”

“Yeah, ya said that.”

“— but if you need someone to talk to, I’m a fair listener,” she says, rubbing the strap of her bag. “If… if there’s something you can’t discuss with Plumeria.”

Guzma cocks his head. One of her pins is askew, and he makes the petty decision not to tell her. 

“I’ll think about it. I guess.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: violence, blood, remembered sexism and abuse, needles, improper use of OTC meds, gif warning
> 
> legit could not have written any of this if not for [ashcroft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashcroft_Writes) so check his stuff out if you like fallout 4 stuff or great writing or eating cheetos with chopsticks

It’s her fault. She won’t deny it. Just — too much practice asking worried owners in crowded waiting rooms about how their vulpix is handling the cold front, or if their magikarp always lies perfectly still on his side like that. Pokémon don’t have privacy laws, after all.

It’s her fault when she asks Guzma about his chronic pain in the crowded kitchen of the mansion. 

“Don’t have chronic pain,” and his voice is the deadly kind of quiet that makes her quickly scan his pocket for the handle of a makeshift knife. 

“I see,” she says when she doesn’t find anything. 

“Is — is that why you don’t sleep, Boss?” Ke’awe asks timidly, wringing the rag they were using to wipe down the table. 

“I apologize. I’ll —” Wen tries not to stutter. 

“Shut up.”

“Right. I can —”

He shoves her. Not hard, but —

_ Don’t escalate,  _ Instructor Pono’s voice says somewhere in the back of her head,  _ take a deep breath and find everything yellow around you.  _

Instead, she punches Guzma in the face. The next few seconds are a heated blur of arms and legs swinging. At one point, he manages to trap her under him and get a couple of hits in before she uses her hips as leverage to send him tumbling. It’s all concrete now, not carpet, so the air gets knocked out of his lungs as she uses her palm to slam his head into the ground. 

It takes Plumeria, Ke’awe, Toto, and Noah to seperate them. 

“What is  _ wrong _ with you two!” Plumeria snaps, pushing Guzma from the front while Toto, the biggest out of the siblings, holds Guzma’s chest back. Guzma doesn’t try to escape, but spits blood near Wen’s feet. “Why is it always one thing or another!”

Wen shakes free of Ke’awe’s loose grasp and runs. She ignores Plumeria calling her, ignores her bag, just runs, in the rain, back to the pokécenter. Then, outside the glass doors, when she realizes the keys are still in her satchel, the static in her head overtakes her for a minute, a droning clamor of voices that won’t cease until she prostrates herself in an apology or buys him a gift that will erase her mistake or — 

She kneels on the pavement and closes her eyes, spine straight, raindrops battering into her skull and puddling around her. Imagines she’s wearing that scratchy blue dress with her sash pulled tight around her waist and the family crest hooked behind her ear. And out of the tangle of competing condemnations in her head, she draws out the thread of her mother setting the timer for six hours, because that’s the  _ minimum _ time Wen should be able to spend on her knees without slouching. She is the most graceful this way, the prettiest this way, demure and calm and smiling faintly.

By the time Nanu opens his front door, she has counted to seven hundred, sitting in this small, dimpling sea. The jag of adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream has dulled. 

“Hey, neighbor,” he says after a pause, as weary as usual. 

“I greet the Kahuna of Ula’ula Island,” she bows, pivoting, efficiently dipping her forehead and fingers to asphalt through two inches of water. Nanu sighs when she looks up and waves her over. She sloshes through the downpour and stands on his lanai, dripping, swiping the water out of her eyes. A meowth hisses and moves further back to avoid the rain.

“Did he hit you?” He hands her a small towel. 

“I hit him first.” When she wipes her face, the cloth comes away with blood. 

“Well, come in now. You’re letting in the damp.”

She’s alright, for the most part. Lots of bruises. A black eye. A split lip. Skinned and reddened knuckles. There’s nothing broken, and later, if she’s still bleeding, she’ll apply a coagulant. She’s alright. 

Every single meowth tries to climb into her lap, even if she’s soggy. Nanu has to keep removing them like some kind of magic trick. 

“Sorry. They like how girls smell. ‘Bout forty years ago, they’d all cluster into bed on my face at night. 

“And suffocate you?” Wen asks, amused, petting two of them. They snag their claws into her shirt in a show of perverse appreciation. 

“They’d try their damn best, it felt like.”

After Nanu heckles her into bandaging the worst of the scrapes, she decides she’ll try to climb in through her window tonight and get her keys tomorrow. 

But when she closes Nanu’s front door behind her, she sees Guzma sitting on the newly built bench under the awnings of the pokécenter, slicking his wet hair back and out of his eyes. 

“Brought your bag,” he says, when she walks over to him, cautiously. He has the remnants of blood under his nose and a scrape up the side of his jaw. She accepts it, and sits down next to him, his thigh warm against hers, his sturdy arm slung around the back of her seat. “Sorry. For shovin’ you.”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have stated confidential information. Or punched you. I’m sorry.”

He smiles bitterly, playing with the zipper on his jacket with his other hand.

“‘S not really supposed t’ be secret or anythin’. I jus’ — don’t wanna worry the sibs. They look up t’ me like some fucked-up father figure. I want ‘em t’ feel like I can take down anythin’ that comes after ‘em. Their big, bad Guzma.” He looks at her and winces. Reaches up to touch her swelling eye. “I really got ya, huh?”

“Not as much as I got you.”

He chokes, surprised, then laughs out loud. He doesn’t cover his mouth. Something odd blooms in the back of her lungs and sears into her chest to see him so uninhibited and close. Her memories start to chastise again, but without the adrenaline to power them, they have the force of a child’s walkie-talkie. 

“Does it hurt?” One of his hands cup her face, passing a thumb over the edges of the bruise. 

“It’s fine.”

“An’ this?” He touches her lip with the back of his finger. She licks at the dried blood. Maybe he naturally runs hot, but she feels like she can melt into their points of contact, into his bones. Their knuckles look exactly the same now, bloody and messed up. 

“No,” she whispers. 

He kisses her, the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance and the sheets of rain curtaining their own secret room under the awning. His hand gently cards through her drying hair, touching the shell of her ear with each pass. Wen shudders, and outlines his flushed jaw, his neck, the dip of his collarbone. When he pulls away with a soft sound, she realizes his eyes are gray, like the sky behind him. 

“Was... that the adrenaline?” she inquires.

“Should we find out?” When he leans in again, she puts a hand on his chest. He raises an eyebrow. “Nah?”

“Your nose is bleeding.”

“Of fuckin’ course it is,” Guzma groans, tilting his head forward and pinching his nose. Her face is red, but she can’t help but to burst out laughing before clamping a hand over her mouth. 

“You look good like that,” he admits when she finally takes a breath. “Actually laughin’. Not that customer service smile you do.” 

“It’s a habit.”

“From what?”

“Finishing school.” She takes a cloth from her bag for him to press against his nose. For a while, there’s only the sound of fearows calling mournfully through the storm and the rattling of a rusted lamp post as the wind picks up. He sneezes. 

“Would you like to come inside? I’ve got extra clothes that might fit you.”

“Damn, let ya boy stop bleedin’ before ya jump him.”

“You can stay out here, then.”

“‘M kiddin’, ‘m kiddin’.” He stands up. “But really. Please let me in. Plumes’s mad.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Lotsa plants in here,” he comments, jammed into the corner of the couch with a cup of cocoa in his hands. There was an old Skull tank that was his size, but his shorts end mid-thigh. The intricate swirls of a tattoo circle down his arms to his elbow and seem to go down his broad back as well. Wen hums, hands him a blanket, and sits on the other end of the couch with an ice pack over her throbbing eye. He leans over the arm to sniff at the little pot of dallyrag. 

“Please don’t do that.”

“Oh, balls.” He jerks away. “‘S it poisonous? Fuck, d’ya have a poisonous plant right by the couch on purpose? Like a trap or some shit?” 

“No. But some of my plants are, so I’d prefer if you exercise some caution.”

“But this one ain’t?”

“No.”

“Nice.” He goes right back to sniffing it. She takes a big gulp of her tea and pretends she didn’t see that.

“If I wanted to trap you, I’d spike your drink.”

“Damn, I’d drink it anyway, too. That’s high-level shit.” 

The dryer turns in the background. Wen sets her tea down and sinks back to close her eyes. She’s… the most comfortable here, surrounded by wooden furniture and dried herbs and a hundred plants and less metal than normal. Maybe she was a fairy in her past life. Maybe she died in prison, and the demon taking her place couldn’t stand touching metal, metal, metal. A hand skims her cheek, and she chases it. She missed that, too. Touching that didn’t end in a fight. Hugging. Kissing. Missed Plumeria snuggling next to her, not sitting behind a bullet-proof pane of glass during their visits. When she opens her eyes — well, eye — Guzma has moved closer. He props his head against the back of the couch as well, so that their gazes are level. She smells the chocolate on his breath. His hand moves from her face down to her own hand, and his callouses catch on the tips of her fingers. 

“What’s on your mind, girlie?” 

“What would you like for dinner?”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Guzma laughs for five long minutes when he sees her pajamas. Every time he tries to stop laughing, he’ll look at it again, and roll on his back, howling. It goes on for so long that Wen gets a chance to spread out her guest futon with fresh bedding, laying it on the floor of her room. Finally, she climbs onto her bed, braces herself against the wall, and kicks him off. He hits the floor with a heavy thump. 

“It’s just sleepwear, Guzma.”

“You’ve got matchin’ pjs!” he chuckles from the floor. “With lil’ dittos all over ‘em!”

She frowns. 

“Ditto are cute and crucially important for the restoration of endangered species.”

“Hell yeah, they are. So’re you, girlie.” He gives an easy grin, his eyes narrowing. “You’re very cute in that.” His thumb rubs slow circles into the bone of her ankle, and his touch burns in a way she doesn’t understand. Like a brand? Like tea?

“Thank you,” she says, because she can’t say anything else. “Please go to sleep, Guzma.”

“‘S only ten.”

“It’s bedtime.”

He grumbles, but she turns off the lights anyway. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

At 5AM, her alarm rings, and she gets up to make her bed immediately. Obviously, no one is checking to see if it’s made and how well the covers are tucked in. It’s just habits, habits. Guzma isn’t on the futon. She finds him in the kitchen, squashed into the wooden chair too tiny for either of them, scrolling mindlessly through his phone in the dark. His back is hunched and his face is stony. 

“Good morning,” she says softly. He just nods, not sparing her a glance. 

And she doesn’t doubt she had possessed what it took to be a doctor. She was talented at memorizing information and applying it to situations; what she lacked in creativity, she made up in sheer information. But pokémon had always suited her better than people, and a doctor was maybe too ambitious of a goal for someone who was to be the perfect wife and mother. 

Still, she hated seeing people in pain, hated the fine lines of stress on his forehead and the unconscious way he ground his teeth when he breathed in slightly too deep.

She pads over to him and lays a careful hand on the back of his neck. He looks up for a second, surprised, then deflates, letting his phone clatter to the table and putting his head in his arms with a grunt. 

“Did you sleep?” she asks, squeezing just a hair tighter. Just that makes him take a panicked, shallow breath. 

“Nah.”

“Is your back hurting?”

He laughs sourly. 

“Yeah, you can say that.” 

“Can I help you feel better?” 

At that, he says nothing. She smoothes her hand down his spine, tracing his rhomboid, serratus, latissimus dorsi — 

“Dunno if you can do anythin’.”

“Will you let me try?” She returns her hand to the back of his neck, stroking the black triangles of his tattoo. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Fourteen needles and two small spinal adjustments later, he falls asleep, face-down, on Wen’s bed. She pulls out the needles quickly. They don’t hurt, but she doesn’t want to wake him. She doesn’t know what to make of the scar tissue criss-crossing his shoulder blades. Traces them thoughtfully, before pulling the blanket over his shoulders and drawing the curtains. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

When she accidentally closes the fridge door too hard, juggling four pieces of fruit in one hand and a jug of water in the other, Guzma wakes up.

“Ghzmhh?” she shoves the rest of the bread into her mouth and swallows. He stands by the doorway, unsteadily, scratching his stomach. She can see the dark trail of hair that disappears down his navel into his shorts. “Guzma! Good afternoon. You could have slept longer.”

“Could I get some water?” he rasps. 

“Of course,” she dumps the fruits on the table and turns to get another cup while he folds himself back into the tiny kitchen chair. 

“While you were sleeping,” she starts, while he chugs the entire glass, “I took the liberty to gather some information about your condition that might help you mitigate some aspects of your chronic pain. As it seem to be —”

“Hold up,” he interrupts, raising a hand. “Gimme a sec. ‘M not a mornin’ person.” He pours himself another glass of water, but this one, he sips slowly. His hair is fluffier than she’s ever seen it. “What’s mitigate?” 

“Ah, it means to make less severe or serious. It’s a verb.”

He nods slowly, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes. In the silence between, Wen crams another piece of bread into her mouth. 

“What’re ya wearin’?”

She looks down at herself. 

“A… white-coat?”

“D’ya always wear that?”

“While I’m working, yes. I just came up for lunch.”

She sees his eyes flicker over her, cataloging. A shiver runs up her spine, and when he notices that, he flashes a half-lidded grin, cocking his head. 

“Looks good on ya.”

“I — thank — thank you?”

“Are ya eatin’ bread for lunch?”

“Yes?”

He stands up abruptly, the chair scraping against the tiles.

“Y’got spam?”

“Of course I have spam,” Wen shoots back, her brows furrowing. He grins.

“Rice?”

“I’ve got instant rice.” 

“A’ight. I’ll make ya somethin’. Tell me what y’were sayin’ before.”

“R-regarding the… Guzma, you don’t have to make me lunch.”

“Lemme feed ya.” He nods at her to continue while he grabs a pan. “C’mon. What were ya sayin’ ‘bout my back?” 

“...It seems as if you have nerve pain.”

“That’s what the doc said last time I visited ‘em.”

Wen perks up at this, grabbing a pen.

“When was that? What else did they say? Did they take x-rays?”

“Chill, girlie. I was fifteen when I last got it checked out. An’ ‘s not like I could tell ‘em everythin’ with my dad breathin’ down my neck.” He slices the spam into even strips with practiced ease. “‘M sure ya saw the scars on my back. Golf clubs an’ other shit.” 

“Oh. Trauma-induced, then?” Wen taps the pen against her cheek, thoughtful. “While nerve-damage is the cause of a portion of the pain, I believe your posture might be worsening the situation.” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s possible that when you were younger, you changed your posture to whatever made your back hurt less. However, the prolonged period of holding your back in an unnatural position puts stress on your muscles. The human vertebrae was designed to stack on top of each other.” She makes a piling motion with her hands, even though Guzma isn’t looking. “And when you take that away, everything around it suffers. So,” she said, recapping her pen, “I suggest slowly working to improve your posture. I can recommend some stretches that will help as well. As for medicinal treatment, what has your experience been like with Advil or Tylenol?”

“Back when we had money, I used t’ take half an Advil a day.”

“Half a pill?”

“Nah, uh, half a bottle.”

Wen blinks and almost reflexively brings a hand to her liver. 

“Well, let’s… not do that.”

After popping the rice into the microwave, he turns around and crosses his arms, leaning against the counter.

“That thing you did yesterday, with the needles.” For a moment, the only sound is the hum of the microwave and the popping of the spam in the frying pan. “D’ya think… it might work again?”

“I do,” she says gently. “And if it doesn’t, we can try something else.”

He sneers, but it seems self-directed. Runs a hand through his hair and yanks.

“Honestly, doesn’t even seem worth it.”

Something wells up in her chest and sends her stumbling out of her chair. He catches her, startled, but she only grabs his hands, clasping them tightly. She stands there, pushing him up against the counter, trying to attach words to the feeling threatening to spill from her eyes. 

“Guzma,” she says, voice hoarse, “you don’t deserve to be in pain. You don’t. So don’t give up yet, okay?”

She’s about as tall as he is, but he’s so much bigger than her, and when he wraps his arms around her and straightens up, he’s high enough to press his mouth to her forehead, her black-eye, the curve of her ear. 

“I won’t.” It sounds like a reassurance. His thumb runs down the divots of her spine. “Ya boy never gives up.” He holds her to him, his head bowed on her shoulder, even when the microwave beeps an ending. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The musubi he makes disappears down her throat in ten seconds flat. 

“Slow down, girlie,” he warns, wrapping the nori around another one. She doesn’t. No one is here to take her food but — she doesn’t. Habits, habits, habits.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Later, in the corners of the night, her stomach blazes. The bed smells like him, like chocolate, like laundry detergent, like the shampoo he uses. She can’t stop squirming or trying to recreate what it felt like to be pulled against that husky chest, his fingers on her spine, the hand on her ankle. 

_ It was the adrenaline _ , she thinks, touching her chapped lips. Only after repeating the thought nine more times does her heart slow enough to sleep. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“You know, sometimes,” Plumeria starts, snuggled into Wen’s side, the red comforter draping both their legs, “I think I’m not really doing anything worth-while.” Wen looks down at the top of Plumeria’s multi-colored head. Puts aside the paper she was studying —  _ The Establishment of a Tourism-centric Ecosystem And Its Effect on Native Flora.  _ “Aw, Wenny, you didn’t have to stop reading. I’m just rambling.”

But Plumeria knows her protest won’t do anything; Wen has always been a serious, attentive listener. Even in high school, when girls walked around gathering advice in a desperate hope to change, Wen had offered nothing but attention and the occasional question. Even now, the undivided scrutiny touches Plumeria in the part of her heart set aside for their conversations. 

“I like hearing what you say,” Wen says, combing through the ends of Plumeria’s hair. Cedar slinks over to curl up tighter next to Wen, her warmth seeping through the sheets like an eco-friendly heating pack. “What did you mean by that?” 

Plumes shrugs. 

“It’s just, I love the sibs. I really do, but,” she stops and then continues in a whisper, “sometimes I think about leaving.” Wen nods. “When I graduated that dumb school, I promised the rest of my life was going to be for me. And I know protecting those you love isn’t worthless but, is this what I’m going to be doing when I grow up? In ten years? Twenty? Just… struggling to keep us all afloat?”

“You work hard,” Wen says gently, a simple statement that makes Plumeria’s chest swell and eyes sting at the same time. The salazzale flicks her tail so that it lands heavy on Plumeria’s shoulder.

“Hell yeah. Bitches get shit  _ done. _ ” She sighs. “Guess I just wish I could, I don’t know, do something that isn’t battling small kids for their pocket money just so we can eat.” She grabs Cedar’s tail and squeezes tightly. The salazzle doesn’t seem to mind, much.

“What would you do if the kids were cared for?”

“Are we talking about, like, stick-them-in-a-detention-center care? Or alive-and-flourishing care?”

“The latter.”

“Dang, I don’t know,” Plumeria muses. Wen pokes at her side, and she giggle-flinches. “Alright! I mean I do know. I’d try to beat the Battle Tree. Maybe go for Champion. 

“That’s amazing,” Wen says, and even though Plumeria’s known her for so long, she still has to turn to make sure the shine in Wen’s eyes is genuine and not a passive-aggressive mockery. “You’d be a stellar addition to both, to anything you choose to do.” 

There’s a slam. Plumeria’s door rattles for a second before being wrenched open. 

“You better take off your  _ fucking shoes _ , peabrain!” 

Guzma groans at Plumes’s vehement shout and shucks his sneakers off outside before closing the door and diving onto Plumeria’s bed. Cedar lets out a shrill rattle before scuttering over to Plumeria’s side. Of course, he ignores the protest and crawls straight for them to flop down on Wen’s lap. Wen freezes, then looks up at Plumeria, who looks incredibly delighted. 

_ Did you guys do it?  _ Plumeria mouths, complete with the inserting hand motions. Wen shakes her head so hard, her neck crackles. “What are you doing here, lolo. You know it’s girls’ night. Afternoon.”

“I can do girl talk,” he grumbles from Wen’s lap, crossing his arms, facing away from them both. “Or I can shut up. Just lemme stay here for an hour.”

“Did you have a nightmare or something?”

Guzma doesn’t respond, and Plumeria sighs. Wen hesitantly pets his soft hair, fluffy from humidity and his tossing and turning. The piercings in his ears click softly. He melts into her touches, tossing his arm over her legs and closing his eyes. And just like that, he’s out, breathing evenly. 

“Doing stuff behind my back, huh?” Plumeria hisses gleefully. 

“I wouldn’t!”

“How far have you two gone? Tell me, tell me, tell m—”

“Nowhere! I mean, we haven’t! Done anything. I mean, he kissed me after we fought. But I think it was the adrenaline.”

“Arceus, Wenny!” Plumes bites her lip to stifle her laughter. She has to sit on her hands to prevent herself from shaking Wen’s shoulders. “Was it the adrenaline for you?” 

“Okay, you know what?” She wriggles down into the blankets, lifting Guzma’s head until it rests on her chest. His brows scrunch, but he doesn’t wake up. “It’s time for a nap.”

“Absolute lies. You’ve never taken a nap in your life.”

“First time for everything. Goodnight, Gummy.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“What kind?” Nanu asks, sniffing into his cup. 

“Dreamer’s Mark. It’s good for arthritis.”

Nanu hums and takes a small sip. “Not bad.” 

_ This _ particular meowth’s name is Tera, and he’s draped across her shoulders, purring. She feels the vibrations all the way down her neck and shoulders. She’s tried to gently move him away twice so far, but each time resulted in him hooking his claws tightly into her shirt, pupils thinning to a slit,  _ daring _ . 

Regardless, she likes these humid nights on his lanai, drinking tea, watching the occasional raticate dart out from under the safety of one hibiscus bush to another. The katydids are loud this year, but that only means the ariados in the area might raise more spinarak, which means more skarmory and less rattata. The birdwatchers would appreciate that. 

“Yo.”

She turns to see Guzma trudging down the gravel sidepath, tanner than the last time she saw him. Wen starts to stand but he waves her down. “‘M here for somethin’ else. Hey, fuck you, old man.”

“Three seconds. You’ve set a new record.” 

“Daily quota an’ all that. Here, girlie.” He holds out his fist. Wen extends a puzzled hand and catches a wad of cash. She focuses on the money for so long that Guzma smirks. “Never seen a fuckin’ salary?” 

“What is this?”

“A salary.” He snaps his fingers. “C’mon. Stay with me here. ‘S for the last half year or whatever. Not that much. ‘F this was an actual biz, I’d be ‘rrested in ten seconds flat for violatin’ minimum wage laws but, yeah. Whatever.”

“Oh, is that what you’d be arrested for?” Nanu mumbles into his teacup.

“Shut — and I can’t fuckin’ stress this enough — up, old man.”

“Guzma,” her voice is pained and it catches in her throat, “Guzma, I don’t need this.” She tries to give it back, but he scowls. 

“Look, dunno if you think you’re invincible or somethin’ but ya need t’ save for emergencies. Should have a fund for at least a year’s rent in Malie, an’ what ‘bout retirement? Ya wanna work forever like the old man?” Nanu swishes the tea around in his mouth and pointedly ignores the comment. “‘S not like I can get ya a 401k, so damn, at least start thinkin’ about an IRA.”

“I can’t —”

“Keep it,” he orders, closing his fingers over hers. “D’ya know how many pyukumuku I had t’ chuck for this? Arceus, ‘s this what it feels like t’ have a full-time? Poor fuckin’ bastards.”

Nanu snorts into his cup, coughing, while Wen bursts into laughter. Guzma catches her hand before she can cover her mouth. 

“Shit, what’re ya hiding from,” he murmurs, leaning down into her space. He smells like chocolate again, soap, the smallest sting of an aradios’s venom. She bites the inside of her lip, and his eyes flicker down to her mouth for a millisecond. “Jus’ laugh. No one’s takin’ points off here.” 

Tera hisses and yowls crossly at Guzma’s calloused hand just as Nanu clears his throat. Guzma scowls at both of them, and Wen takes that moment to pull away, a crowd of ingrained corrections swelling up, up in her head like the cry of cicadas. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: sickness, mild sexual content, blood, laceration, child abuse (sorta), medicine, recreational drug mention, stitches, improper use of medicine,

Guzma only wakes up because of a cool hand on his forehead. 

His dad used to do this, sitting on his snom-patterned comforter in the half-light, listening to Mom boast about the slew of perfect test scores Guzma had managed to wrangle out of his woozy brain. 

_ You worked hard _ , his dad would say,  _ and that’s why you’re sick. Keep it up. _ No matter how high his fever, his father’s hand was hotter, hotter, hotter. 

“Whozzat?” Guzma slurs, and the chilly hand combs back through his hair, even though he hasn’t showered in, what, three days?

“It’s Wen. I think you were having a nightmare.” Her voice is muffled. 

“Don’ have nightm’res, ladybug,” he responds, maybe too quickly. The hand stops in his hair. He drifts off. Wakes up again when it moves to his cheek, against the grain of his stubble. “Mm?”

“Gummy said you’ve been sick. Don’t tell me you don’t get sick, either.”

“Don’ get sick,” he chuckles. If he squints, he can barely make out the light blue of the mask she’s wearing. 

“You have a fever.”

“‘Cause I’m sizzlin’.” He hits himself in the face with an uncoordinated set of finger guns. In the dark, he hears her laugh and the tips of her fingers stroke his helix piercings. 

“Can you take some medicine?”

“Only if y’can lift me up, ladybug.” There’s that weird pause again, but Guzma just hopes she’ll keep touching his ear like that. Suddenly, she wiggles an arm under him and smoothly props him up into a sitting position. Jams her leg behind him so he can lean back. “Oh, shit, y’actually did it, ya fuckin’ angel, that’s so fuckin’ kinky.” She laughs again, but it’s closer now, because she’s sitting right next to him, and he can smell the puff of minty-salty.

“It’s a powder. I have some water here. It’ll be a bit bitter.” She tips the valley of a folded paper into his open mouth. It doesn’t have the cloyingly sweet taste of cheri berry fever syrup, and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. He immediately grimaces, even after he gulps down the water that follows. 

“A bit?”

Her eyes narrow into a smile he can’t see. She leans down to pick a washcloth from a bucket on the floor. 

“Hands,” she says and wipes them carefully. His arms. The back of his neck. The water must have been hot when she brought it in, but it’s cool now, enough for him to shiver. She murmurs an apology near his ear and he shivers for a different reason. His face. 

So fine, he’s sick, but maybe that gives him enough reason to nuzzle into the side of her neck and wrap an arm around her waist. She’s soft. Well, not really, but she could be a literal  _ slab of granite  _ and his brain would still supply only that adjective to describe the feeling of her waist and the heat of her shoulder. And maybe it’s his fever-cooked brain that’s to blame when he thinks about sucking a hickey into the skin under her jaw.

“Toto made congee for you. Would you like some?”

“Later.” 

“Okay.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

He almost throws a rock into her window, but instead, rings the doorbell about thirty times before he hears her bounding down the stairs. 

“Guzma?” Her eyes are sleepy, alarmed. “Are you —”

“Akari’s bleedin’,” he gasps out, chest heaving. She immediately disappears. Guzma looks into the pokécenter to see her hurdle over the counter, grab a small case, slam back a handful of what looks like white pills, and vault back over again. From a cluster of potted plants, she grabs a bigger box, which she hurls into his arms. 

“Bring that!” she calls over her shoulder, before she bolts down the street into the humid night. And Arceus, he does try to keep up with her, but she’s  _ fast _ . He doesn’t understand how she can sprint like that in just slippers and happiny pajamas but all he does is get a better grip on his cargo and push himself to catch up to her. He doesn’t, so by the time he darts back into the mansion, she’s already kneeling over Akari on the concrete, Plumes bringing her up to speed. 

“I’m stupid.” Akari whispers. “I’m stupid, I’m stupid, I’m—” 

“You’re not,” Plumeria says firmly, keeping a hand on Akari’s shoulder so she doesn’t get up. He places the crate next to Wen, who doesn’t even acknowledge him and continues to carefully stitch in a second layer of little knots in the nauseatingly deep gash that runs from the outside of Akari’s elbow to wrist. 

“You told me not to meet him and I trusted him like I—”

“It’s not your fault you trust your family. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Your dad’s —” Plumeria turns her head and grinds her teeth so hard that Noah grabs her arm to get her to stop. “Your dad’s a fucking asshole. And he’s gonna get what’s coming to him.” 

“Hold this,” Wen orders Ke’awe, and they race over to put pressure on the towel over Akari’s arm, their face pale. Wen spins over to the bigger case and grabs a flashlight from one of the compartments. Clicks it on and flashes it quickly over Akari’s eyes. 

“You hurt?” Guzma quietly asks Toto. She shakes her head, arms crossed tightly. 

“I — I tried to get him down. But he got a—away.”

“He didn’t get away; he  _ ran _ away. ‘Cause you kicked his ass,” Ava says and Naomi nods furiously.

“That’s my girl,” Guzma says, wrapping an arm around her. It was worth teaching them how to fight. It always is. He watches Toto’s hunched shoulders straighten out for a fleeting moment.

“H-hell yeah,” she says weakly, vehemently, and then promptly curls up into herself again. Junu bursts through the doors of the mansion, breathing hard. 

“Nanu called the ambulance! They’ll be flying in soon!”

Wen tears through the crate again and pulls out a small envelope. 

“You need to breathe this in,” she tells Akari, gingerly ripping it open to reveal a fine pink powder. 

“What, like coke?”

“Guzma!” Plumes snaps but Akari nods, tears dripping off her chin. 

“I’ve seen my mom do it.” 

“Don’t move your head. I meant through your mouth. Breathe in deep on three, okay? One, two, —” Wen claps the paper over Akari’s lips as she inhales. Akari instantly tries to cough, but Wen pins her steadily to the floor, keeping her head straight and still. Eventually, Akari relaxes and Wen pulls back. 

“What did ya give ‘er?” Guzma asks as Wen stands up. 

“Something to slow her heartbeat.” She lowers her voice and herds him to the side, stripping off her latex gloves. There’s blood on her knees. “If he hit her hard enough that her pupils are uneven, there could be intracranial bleeding. We need to get her to Malie.”

“Intracranial means brain stuff?”

“Yes. I’m going to go with her to the hospital. I need to tell them what I dosed her with.”

“Should we get ‘er outside?”

“No, we don’t have a board. We can’t move her with a head injury.”

Guzma nods even though he doesn’t really get it. 

In the span of two breaths, her attention seems to fold inward -- a paper crane creasing into halves, quarters, eighths -- until she’s twitching her fingers to a beat only she can hear. He places a hand on her forearm. Wen starts, eyes clearing, paper smoothed flat again. Blinks twice.

“Please don’t touch me,” she admonishes, moving away. “There’s blood on my sleeves.” 

He hears Nanu outside just as three EMTs open the door. Wen immediately steps to help them roll Akari onto what looks like a surfboard with holes. Outside, two braviary perch on top of the air ambulance, claws gripping the padded pole securely. One of them screeches loudly; a flock of spearow complains noisily in the distance. Wen jumps into the back of the ambulance after they load in Akari and helps Nanu swing up next to her. The doors shut. 

When they take off, it’s still dark, and it doesn’t take long for Guzma to lose sight of them in the spaces between the stars. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

But when they come back, the sun is just starting to creep up past the horizon, painting fire on the charizards’ wings. Nanu slides off his ride first. Guzma shoots up from the bench when she almost crumples on the ground trying to do the same.

“M’fine. Oh, gosh, excuse me. I’m fine.” Wen leans heavily on Nanu, but the height difference doesn’t help. Guzma slips under her arm and braces her more firmly against his hip. 

“She took something,” Nanu supplies when Guzma shoots him a glare. “She wouldn’t stay for treatment.”

“I have the antidote at the pokécenter; I didn’t need treatment.” 

“I’m going back to the hospital. Your sibling just got checked in and I figured I’d take Wen back before she got any worse. Can you take it from here?”

“Yeah,” Guzma says. “Ask Plumes for some of ‘Kari’s stuff. She’ll pack a bag for her.” Nanu nods. 

“Make sure she eats something. Get some rest, Wen.” Motions at one of the charizards and swings back up for the short flight to the Shady House. The other charizard snuffles into Wen’s hair and then takes off with a blast of wind. 

“The fuck kinda drugs did ya take?” he asks her, moving towards the center. It’s slow. Before she can answer, he scoops an arm around the back of her knees and sweeps her up, walking briskly into the building. She yelps but doesn’t struggle. 

“I — it was something to get me to wake up. To clear my mind. But a common side effect is jittering, and I didn’t want my hands trembling while suturing. So I took something else to prevent that.” 

And Guzma, Guzma doesn’t know what to think. He brings her inside, up the stairs, and watches as she unsteadily tips a dark red powder into her mouth. Leads her to her bedroom so she can change. Fries rice and eggs and onions in a pan because she doesn’t have a wok and places the plate in front of her, where he stares at her wolf down her meal in three minutes flat. 

“You’re gonna choke,” he comments. She laugh-hiccups. Throws back a cup of water like it’s a shot. Somehow, she’s still graceful like this, a grain of rice stuck to her collar, shaking like she’s going through a fucking meth withdrawal. Guzma wipes the rice away. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t laugh at that. Her pupils are blown wide-open and she jumps every time a tremor shoots from her spine to her teeth. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” she answers gently, even though her shallow breaths barely fill her lungs. 

He doesn’t say anything and instead, guides her back to her bedroom, pushing her under the covers. As he draws the curtains, he hears her flip the blankets back. This time, she has lillipups on her pajamas and she nestles in a loose, unguarded line into her pillow. 

“Should we take a nap?” 

A swell of desire surges into the bottom of his stomach but he crushes it down with an iron fist. 

“Yeah.” Discards his jacket, shirt. Slips in next to her, cramped into a twin bed. Same pillow, same space, same exhale. She tucks the blanket back around him.

“Oh,” she murmurs, flattening her cold hands over his bare chest, buried under the weight of the duvet and his arm around her waist. “You’re so warm.”

“...Go t’ sleep.”

“It’s bedtime,” she agrees and falls asleep with her hands curved up near his heart.

He doesn’t sleep. He counts backward from fifty, prime numbers only. Tries not to think of all the times he jacked off to the thought of her squirming under his tongue or the scrape of his teeth. Tries not thinks about the way she looked when he kissed her, the ends of her hair curling upward as they dried, the beads of rain that transferred from his cheeks to her, the flush that spread across her nose. Those two little freckles under her eye, closer than ever. The quiet hush of rain hitting the pavement around them and the tinnier sound of the drops striking the roof. The grip of her fingers. He runs out of prime numbers and starts to dip into the negatives.

Wen shifts. He quietly brushes a strand of hair away from her eyes. Traces the shell of her ear.

He sleeps, and doesn’t dream. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

When he startles awake, the sun is directly overhead and the bed is empty. In the kitchen, Wen wipes down the leaves of her potted plants with a rag. 

“...What’re you doin’?” 

She jumps.

“Guzma! Good morning! Afternoon!”

“Y’could’ve slept longer.”

“Ah, no. It was — I was fine. I am fine.” The sunlight makes her hair glow and the brown in her eyes glitters, honey-colored. She’s still in her pajamas. He tilts his head at the rag in her hands. “Ah. Sometimes dust will collect on the leaves and make it difficult for them to photosynthesize.” So he grabs another rag, wets it, and cleans the leaf next to her. “Oh, you don’t have to —”

“I think I failed Akari,” he interrupts. She pauses, then starts to put her cloth down, but he stops her. “Woah, that’s hella attention, girlie.”

“Oh, um.” She goes back to wiping, her back tense, so clearly listening. But the lack of eye contact is enough for Guzma to sigh. “What do you mean by that?” He rinses his towel and holy shit, there’s a lot of dirt on it.

“When those fuckers find out their kids’re here, I’m the one that stops ‘em. Dunno how many grown-ass adults I’ve beaten the shit outta. An’ I’ve never lost a fight to ‘em. Never lost a battle, either.” He gives a lopsided grin to the sink. “‘M their big, bad Guzma.”

“I remember,” she says softly.

“‘S not like I don’t teach ‘em how t’ fight. Noah kicked the balls off his own dad once. But I always tell ‘em that they’re safe here. An’ if they’re scared, they can find me an’ point, an’ I’ll kill whatever they point at. That’s what I tell ‘em.” He wrings the towel so hard, it creaks. He wants to throw it out the window. Thinks better of it. Hangs it neatly across the faucet as if he’s  _ normal _ , as if he doesn’t remember the satisfying crunch of bone under his fist. “But I wasn’t there this time. Couldn’t do the only fuckin’ thing I’m good at. An’ I wonder if she’s scared. If she don’t feel safe anymore.”

“ _ Is _ she safe? Here?”

He scratches the back of his head, listening to the refrigerator hum. 

“Safer than her house, yeah.” When he glances back at her, he can see her shoulders are rigid, and she’s squeezing the rag as tight as he was, fingers tapping against the cloth.

And later, if he were to isolate the exact moment he gave up, he would stick a pin into this stretch of silence here. Because he gently takes the rag out of her hands and then nudges her up against the counter to kiss her. She freezes. He pulls back, licks his lips, then kisses her again, smoother, easier. Wraps his hands around her waist as she unravels, her thumbs coming up to pet down the column of his throat. 

He doesn’t have a nosebleed this time. Rather, he has space. Space to hear her heart pounding. Space to lick into her mouth, to swallow the content sigh she makes. Space to feel the slick slide of her tongue against his. Her lips are chapped and he’s not sure if he’s ever cared less because she tastes like mint and salt and pinap berries and her, her, her, her. 

He hates it when he has to pull away. Her eyes blink open, hazy and focused on his mouth.

“Did I do something wrong?” Her voice is rough, and goes straight to his dick. 

“Nah.” Tucks her grapefruit-pink hair behind her ear. “Nah. Jus’ — my back fuckin’ hurts.” She hums at that, then hops up on the counter. Pulls him in by his wrists so he can stand between her legs. 

“This okay?” she asks, and Arceus, yeah, it is. He tilts his head up to meet her mouth again, his hands slipping under her top to stroke the tender skin right above the waistband of her pants. Nips her bottom lip to hear the small gasp she makes. He wants to trace every one of her teeth with his tongue and he thinks she might just let him. The hand that’s combing through his hair turns to the back of his head and runs up the grain of his undercut. He moans and flinches back. 

“A’ight. We gotta — stop for a bit.” 

“Was  _ that _ something wrong?” Her lips are the color of the wine he used to drink before bed, back when Aether was still funding them.

“Nah, but I’m pretty damn close t’ flippin’ ya over and fuckin’ ya right here and —” he lets out a breath and noses into the crook of her throat, closing his eyes. “Dunno, kinda wanted it slightly more romantic than that for the first time.” He loves the rumble of laughter in the back of her throat. She doesn’t touch his undercut again, but runs her hand down the back of his neck. Presses fingers into his shoulder blade, massaging. 

“Was that the adrenaline?” she muses.

“...The ‘drenaline that comes from wipin’ down your plants?”

“Friday night’s finest.” 

He snorts, then presses an open-mouthed kiss to her pulse point. She inhales sharply, digging her nails into his back, trying to pull him closer. He grins when he feels her hips stutter towards his stomach. 

“Hey,” he says softly into her ear, fogging up the black glass of her earring, “should we try us out?”

“Sex?

“No.  _ Tapu Bulu, yes. _ But, nah.”

“These are very mixed signals.”

“Give me a sec before ya jump me, girlie. I meant  _ us. _ Dating.” He withdraws his hands from under her shirt to put them on her thighs, squeezing lightly. Leans back to peck her nose. “Exclusive an’ shit, or whatever the kids call it these days.” 

“Sure,” she says, too easily, too quickly. She smiles. 

“...A’ight.”

And only later, much, much later, when Guzma’s back in his own bed with Soap curled up on top of him as if he’s still a wimpod, only then does he realize why it bothered him so much. It was that smile, the same fucking insipid smile she offered on the first day he saw her. It hadn’t surfaced for awhile. For months. But just as before, he doesn’t have a fucking clue what it means. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

The thing is… he forgets about it. Because she doesn’t ever bring up a reason to  _ fight _ about it. Sometimes, he watches her sit in her little apothecary room, milling herbs in her mortar and he’ll think about bringing it up, but then she’ll look up and smile at him — a real smile, a genuine smile — and ask him if he can take a turn while she gets water. And he’ll end up working at it for far longer than she did while only getting uneven lumps instead of the smooth, sandy powder stored in the multitude of small bottles on her shelf. But she’ll peck him on the cheek and thank him and by the time he pulls her down onto his lap so he can properly kiss her, he’ll forget. 

Or he’ll walk over as the sun is setting, meaning to confront her, but he’ll see her through the glass doors of the pokécenter, calmly listening to Akari relay what the doctors at Malie said to her as Nanu writes it down to file a report. And he’ll just… put his hands in his pockets and look at the way her wrist moves as she takes notes, the way she squints against the rising tide of light filling the lobby they converse in. The two freckles.  _ Ladybug, ladybug _ .

He forgets, easily, freely. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit sexual content (they do be fuckin'), remembered abuse, mild anxiety attack, I use the word c*nt a lot
> 
> did I ever tell you guys the title is from the song false confidence by noah kahan?

Guzma opens his eyes on the third sneeze. 

“Bleach?” he gives a lopsided grin, Vaseline smeared right below his hairline. Wen nods and then sneezes again. Into her elbow, of course. “I can do the rest.”

“There isn’t much left,” she protests. She swirls her brush in the gel and dabs at his roots. On the other hand, Plumeria blazes through kid after kid until only Ke’awe is left, sitting still until the lavender dye sets, petting the third palest fomantis Wen has ever seen. Lack of sunlight. Not detrimental, but it’ll take longer for him to evolve.

“You’re lucky you just have to bleach,” Plumes says while wringing out her own hair. The brightened pink and yellow intermingle in a frenzy of color. 

“Tradeoff: I gotta wait twice as long ‘cause my hair’s so fuckin’ black.”

“Am I done?” Ke’awe whines. Plumes pinches their cheek and pulls. 

“Ten minutes is ten minutes, no matter how much you whine.”

“I think it’s been ten minutes, though!” 

“It hasn’t. Ceecee hasn’t done his full turn yet.” Sure enough, the fomantis shakes his outstretched leaves, only halfway to his starting position. Ke’awe presses the bud right at the top of his head. 

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” they grumble, kicking back at the leg of their chair. 

“Do you want a good color or not?”

“I do,” they reply begrudgingly. 

“That’s what I thought. Guz, if you’re done, go wash it out in your bathroom. I’m gonna get the sibs to start cleaning this one.”

“‘Kay,” he says and stands up. Straightens out his posture as an afterthought. 

“Woah,” Ke’awe exclaims, stars in their eyes, “You’re so tall, boss!”

“Not your boss.” He pinches Ke’awe’s other cheek. “Wen, wanna help?”

“Of course.” She turns around to follow him, but not before she sees Plumes draw giant air quotes while mouthing “help”. Wen shoots her a flat look. She responds by smiling as innocently as possible, all big eyes and pretty smile.

“Woah, girlie, your face’s red,” he says when they step into the hall. “You okay?” He palms the back of her head to press his cheek against her forehead. 

“I’m fine. Please don’t get bleach on me.”

“An’ ruin your cherry blossom, grapefruity, lemonade, luvdisc—”

“It’s pink.”

He grins, eyes narrowing. Softens. Kisses her gently in the middle of the hall, where anyone can see, the smell of bleach stinging her eyes, hair plastered to his skull. 

“Guzma, don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He withdraws his arm from her waist. “C’mon.”

It still smells musty in the hallways, but much less. His room is even better, with a single window open to let in the wind coming off the sea. The sink runs in the background. She turns the tiny bits of sea glass on the shelf and then inspects the corsola branch. Rounded and uneven at the ends, so it wasn’t sawed off illegally. When the sun actually shines in here, does it scatter off the sea glass and empty wine bottles onto the neon-painted walls? She imagines a timed stained-glass window, gleaming. 

On the shelf below, a cracked pair of yellow-rimmed sunglasses sits quietly in the corner. Next to it is a gold watch. She picks it up, smooths her thumb over the fine metalwork. It isn’t just a Rolex; it’s a custom Day-Date. But the glass is cracked here, too, and behind it, the second-hand ticks while moving nowhere. _Saturday_ , it says, _Saturday, 24th, 12:24._ In the afternoon? At night? The sink shuts off. The second-hand ticks and doesn’t move. She brings it to her ear. _Tip, tip, tip, tip._

He pauses for a moment when he sees the watch in her hands, but eventually shrugs, toweling his hair. His roots are white now. 

“My dad gave it t’ me,” he says, crossing the room to draw it out of her grasp and place it back on the shelf. 

“...It’s a very valuable gift.”

“Wasn’t a gift.” He corrals her onto his bed so he can lay his head on her lap with a sigh. His hair is still damp but she runs her hand through it anyway, watching it fluff up. 

“I don’t understand. If it was given to you, shouldn’t it be a gift? Did you buy it from him?”

He’s silent, and she decides a response isn’t coming. So, she drags her blunted nails over his chest. He startles and twists up to face her. She gives Plumeria’s smile: sweet, innocent —

“Did you lock the door?” she asks, tilting her head. 

He surges up to kiss her, pushing her down to pin her against his unmade bed. When she laughs into his inhale, their teeth click together. He pulls back to grin. 

“Door’s locked,” he says, ripping off his jacket and shirt. Grabs her ankle and yanks her down towards him so he can rock his hips against hers. The end of her chuckle jumps into a moan as she wraps her arms around his neck and drags a hand up through his undercut, probably as retaliation. Guzma bites into her shoulder to stifle a curse. “Take your fuckin’ shirt off, girlie,” he rasps into her neck, before sucking the start of a hickey onto her collarbone.

“I can’t until you let go.” So he does, sitting back on his heels while he watches her with uncharacteristic patience. 

“You’re not wearin’ a bra.”

“I don’t need one,” she says, folding her shirt carefully and putting it on his nightstand. Folds her pants as well. “Are you complaining?”

“Does it look like I’m fuckin' complainin’?” He gestures downward at the line of his cock jutting through his sweatpants. Her eyes light up. 

“It’s a penis,” she says. “Can I touch you?”

He blinks, then bends over to plant his face into the bed.

“…Do ya have t’ call it that?”

“What else would I call it? Take your pants off. I want to see the glans. Do you have a foreskin?”

“This is a weird fuckin’ kink I’m developin’.”

“I’ve never had the chance to see one this close before. Do you think you can revert back to a flaccid state? I’ve always wanted to feel the corpus cavernosa expand. Please get up. I want to see.”

He sighs into his sheets. Sits up. 

“If ya drop this right now, I’ll let ya look at it later.”

She hesitates, thinking.

“As long as I want?”

He chuckles at that, grabbing her wrists so he can haul her into his arms. 

“As long as ya want,” he agrees, and licks a stripe up the valley of her breasts. And truly, that’s a pretty good deal, so she relents and shudders, boneless, under his warm hands petting down her sides and onto her hips. His mouth burns everywhere it touches. Wen forgets to tell him she doesn’t really… feel anything around her nipples, but he seems to figure that out quickly and instead, laps at the space between her collarbones. She gasps again, arching up, and then buries her face into the pillow next to her. 

It’s incredible when he grinds into her, slowly, brushing her clit with every roll of his hips. Guzma pins her down so that she can’t jerk away. Picks her apart with every thrust until she’s biting the pillow, fingers clenching and unclenching in the soft fabric. 

“Why’re you hidin’?” he murmurs. She feels his voice vibrate in her chest. 

“I’m not,” she replies, pushing the pillow away. “Can I touch you?” He releases her waist and thumps down next to her. Takes her hand and puts it over his heart. His tattoo wraps around his shoulders and part of his chest and if she closes her eyes, she can almost see the design of the swirls down his back. Platysma, pectoralis major, serratus anterior, rectus abdominis. The pad of fat on his stomach. Her mind quiets until she’s touching, just touching, just the two of them in a room that feels too small and too big at the same time. 

“Ya like my beefy tiddies?”

“...Sure.”

“Woah, girlie, tone down the ‘thusiasm.” 

“You’re watching me,” she says.

“Where else would I look?” he grins and puts a hand on her sternum, his thumb pressing against the curve of her breast. “You’re pretty when you’re thinkin’.” 

And that makes the thoughts pour into her head again, like a clamor of bells being struck over a wailing city. Because he’s wrong. In the end, she’s prettiest when she’s listening to someone else. Wen slings a leg over his waist so she can straddle him, her underwear clinging to her slit as she slides against him. 

He seizes her hips again, but this time with a strength that is sure to leave bruises. His face is pale. 

“Guzma?”

He barks a laugh, eyes wide. Sits up and hugs her, burying his face in her shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, feeling his heart try to beat out of his ribcage. 

“Nah,” he says. He’s not hard anymore. “Nah. Jus’ not used t’ bein’ a bottom.”

She rubs his back, smearing away the cold sweat. Out of habit, she gently works her fingers into the ever-present knots of muscle along his spine until the vice-grip of his arms relax a bit.

“I’ve never had penetrative sex before. I’m sorry if I’m doing something wrong.”

“You’re not.”

She wriggles out of his grasp to lay back on the bed, raising her arms to grab the headboard. “I can be on the bottom.”

“Should I tie your hands?” he asks, amused. The color slowly returns to his face. She shrugs.

“You can if you’d like. Regardless, I won’t move.”

“That’s a lotta confidence, girlie.” 

“Will this make you feel safer?”

He doesn’t say anything, but this time she persists, gazing at him until he nods. She nods as well. “Then I won’t move.” She smiles, flashing her teeth. “Won’t you fuck me, Guzma?”

He almost rips her underwear trying to get it off. His sweatpants and briefs go next. Pumps his cock a few times as it swells, flushed and leaking precum. 

“You don’t look average,” Wen states, analyzing, letting him part her legs and run a thumb up the crease of her thigh. 

“Nothin’ about me’s average, baby,” he laughs, and uses a thumb to press a tight circle on her clit. Her hips jerk up, but her hands remain on the headboard. The way he smiles, baring his canines, reminds her of skidding across the floor with him, beating the daylights out of each other. Her stomach tightens as she lets out a shaky breath. 

“Guzma,” she urges, but he only slides a long finger into her, still lightly rubbing her nub. She yelps. 

“Look how wet you are.” He leans forward to kiss her, desperate and hungry, like he wants to swallow all the tiny noises she fails to suppress as he adds another finger. 

“Guzma!” She doesn’t want him looking at her. She does want him looking at her.

“Ya need at least three, girlie.” He bites her nipple hard enough so that she arches up, soundless, the starburst of pain computing as a buzz in her head.

What can she do except fall apart when he strokes against the top wall of her cunt? She can feel herself twitching around his fingers as she cums, the headboard creaking where she squeezes it hard enough to turn her nail beds white. She’s quiet. And when he pulls out, she whines. 

He flings open the desk drawer to grab a condom. Rips it open and rolls it over himself like he’s being timed. 

“You okay?” he asks, using her slick to lube himself up. 

“Fine. The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” 

“You’re a brat,” he sneers, and lines his hips up to finally, _finally,_ sink into her in one thrust. Her toes curl. He doesn’t wait for her to adjust, doesn’t need to; the stretch makes her hook her legs around his thick waist to urge him deeper inside. Instead, he pulls out and slams back in, laughing, taking one of her hands off the headboard to press his lips into the center of her palm. She squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn’t want him watching her with his sky-grey eyes, a hurricane in human form kissing lines up her neck. 

“You feel really good,” she whispers. Doesn’t see the expression on his face, but feels his cock twitch inside her and that ragged intake of breath. 

“Yeah?” He fucks her slower, his pubic bone grazing her clit every time he bottoms out. Doubles over so he can gather her into his arms, taking her other hand off the headboard, eclipsing her, wrapping around her like she’s wrapped around him. And she, she feels so full, like his cock is brushing up against her cervix at every snap of his hips, her legs spread wide around him. He still smells like bleach, like chocolate, like sweat, like deodorant, like the citrus cleaner he uses for Soap’s shell. She lets herself be held by him, as he pounds into her. “You gonna cum on my fat prick?”

“Unfortunately,” she grins against his shoulder. 

He laughs again, sweat dripping from his temples, then shoves a hand under the small of her back to tilt her hips up. The change in angle lets the tip of his cock scrape against a spot that makes her clench around him and bite into his chest to keep from crying out loud. A bead of blood wells up from the teeth marks. She won’t last much longer, but she knows Guzma won’t either. 

“Wenny,” he says in that raspy voice he used when he was sick in the darkness of his room, alone, burning with fever. “Look at me.”

“No,” she says, and cums in a long, drawn-out wave, whimpering once and then welding her teeth shut so she won’t make another noise. He cums seconds after, emptying himself with a few erratic thrusts as her cunt seems to suck him in further, further. She takes small, interrupted breaths. When he pulls out, she feels terribly empty and terribly full. 

“Are ya gonna open your eyes?”

She does. Watches him toss the condom into the trash across the room. She sits up, abruptly, making him jump. 

“Go urinate.”

“What?”

“It’s important to urinate after sex.”

And later, when they’ve both done so, when he’s stopped her from putting her clothes on so he can pull her back to bed and squeeze her to his chest like a stuffed doll, they both watch the sunlight break through the clouds and onto the top shelf so it can shatter in a million multi-colored fragments of light over the wall.

“It wasn’t a gift,” he says, and she can feel the rumble of his words where her back is pressed to his chest. 

“Pardon?” She tries to turn around to face him, but the arm around her waist tightens. When she stops moving, he takes her hand to point at the watch sitting in the shadow of the second shelf, unassuming. 

“It wasn’t a gift.” He lowers their hands and kisses the back of her head. “My dad’s the CEO of a fuckin’ conglomerate. He expected me t’ follow in his footsteps an’ gave me that watch when I got into the Academy. Family heirloom or some shit. Got my life planned out. It wasn’t a gift. It was an expectation.” His voice has a touch of bitterness, but overall, he sounds tired. “Tried t’ be a Captain at fourteen. They didn’t choose me. Didn’t choose me again at fifteen. Dad started hittin’ me. At sixteen, he decided t’ pick up a Callaway driver an’ try t’ beat the qualities of a Captain into me. Bein’ a stupid piece of shit runs in the family, I guess. He broke my arm an’ my wrist.” The sun sinks a degree further behind the horizon and all of a sudden, the colors in the room fade. The top shelf is just chipped sea glass and dusty wine bottles now. 

He laughs, and it’s an angry sound. “But _I smashed his fuckin’ knees in_ ,” he hisses and a low, inappropriate flare of pride flutters in her stomach. She tries to turn around again and this time, he lets her. She kisses him, brushing her tongue against his teeth until he opens them. It feels good. His tongue blazes trails across hers, and his hands grab at her ass, her thighs, and it feels _good_. “Is that what get’s ya horny?” he smirks, a thin thread of saliva connecting them. She licks it away. 

“He broke the watch, then.”

“Saturday,” Guzma agrees, running his fingers down the bumps of her spine, “April 24th, 12:24 AM. That damn thing still ticks. My wrist would’ve been a lot worse if I hadn’t been wearin’ it.”

“The sunglasses, too?”

“Ah, those.” He’s silent for a minute. She almost gives up when he speaks again, “Did ya hear ‘bout Necrozma?”

“Yes. Aether Corporation, right?”

“Yeah. I worked for their prez. They were fuckin’ loaded. Helped keep everyone fed ‘til the thing happened. Got the shit beat outta me an’ my sunglasses. _Precious Champion Moon_ saved me.” His voice is mocking, but he scratches angry red lines into his chest. 

“You talk about her in your sleep,” Wen says softly. 

“What, Moon?” he grimaces. “Don’t worry, she’s like fuckin’ thirteen or some—”

“Lusamine.” 

The rest of the sentence dies on his lips. 

“I don’t get nightmares.”  
“I never said they were,” she responds, raising her eyebrows. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t dream ‘bout that old hag, either.” He pinches her cheek like she’s a sib that needs to be scolded. “Can’t look at me while we’re fuckin’, but you’re starin’ a hole through me right now, huh?” A burst of wind sweeps in from the window, bringing in chirping, croaking, the distant sound of waves. He pulls the sheet over her shoulders. 

“Why do you keep them? The watch is broken, but would still sell for a moderate sum.”

“Dunno,” he says, and the last rays of the sun slip from the room. In the dark, she can’t see the fine lines of stress on his forehead. “Just in case, I guess. If I go crawlin’ back to my dad, I’ll need the watch.” 

“Would you do that?”

“Why not? I’ve always been a fuckin’ failure. One more t’ the list won’t hurt.”

“I see,” she says, and smiles. 

He takes a breath. Once. Twice. Sits up. The sheet slips off his chest. 

“Why do ya smile like that?”

“Pardon?”  
“Why do ya fuckin’ smile like that? Like I’m a fuckin’ customer that you’re tryin’ to get rid of. If ya wanna say somethin’, _say it._ ”

She blinks. 

“I don’t have anything to say. It’s a habit from finishing school.”

“Why’d they fuckin’ teach ya that?”

“I’m not sure,” she says. “Would you like some water?”

Habits, habits, habits. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Wen exits first, so she sees him first: a boy with dark-green hair tied with a bright orange band, talking to Nanu through a malasada stuffed into his mouth. 

“Ah, fuck,” Guzma curses behind her. The boy whips his head around like a labrador and opens his mouth in a big smile, dropping the half-eaten donut back into the box he holds. 

“Mr. Guzma!” He’s fast, bolting out of his chair and charging for Guzma. But Wen would prefer _not_ to see her patient tackled right after having ten needles pulled from him. So she grabs the charging boy by the waist, takes a step to spin him around, and redirects his momentum. “Woah?!”

She smiles, immediately moving away, immediately diffusing any possible anger. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Guzma scowl at her. 

“Pardon me, I thought there was a wasp behind you.”

“Auwe, da kine still dere?!” He hops around frantically, looking behind him and pulling his backpack over his head. “Da kine always chase wen I run! Even wen choke ono da kine errywea, da kine stay chase! Hoo, how can make big body even wen so small? So irrahz, br—” He screeches to a sudden stop. “...ah… e kala m — uh, sorry. Miss. My name’s Hau!” Hau tips his head and grins, “And hi, Mr. Guzma!” 

“I told ya t’ stop comin’ here!”

“Ehhh, I came here to see Kahuna Nanu!”

Nanu raises a hand in the shade, dunking a malasada into his coffee with the other. Next to him sits a slender boy with platinum-blonde hair who shoots a dirty look into his teacup. Hau skips closer to study Wen’s face, fingers stroking his hairless chin. 

“You da kine, wahine?”

“My name is Wen. What da kine?” 

“Eh — eeeehhh! You know, like, kama’aina, yeah?”

“...Shoots. I stay kanaka maoli. Try move fo da lanai, boy.”

“Howz dat!” he shouts, bouncing backwards as they head towards the little table piled with snacks, “Same same, sistah! But how come I no recognotice you? I wen tink I know erry kanaka on da kine.” 

She doesn’t quite know how to say, “you haven’t seen me at the cultural meet-ups because I was in prison for four of your formative years for killing a man and beating another half to death” to a child so she shrugs instead. 

“Ayyy, Gladion.” Guzma calls, jogging up to the boy and slinging an arm around his thin shoulders. “How’s admin number two doin’?”

“Ugh.”

“Don’t gimme that.” Guzma chomps right into the pastry in Gladion’s hand, who drops it immediately onto the plate in disgust. “Ya take over the company yet?” At that, Gladion turns and bites, hard, into Guzma’s forearm, but Guzma only gives a lazy smile. “Gladion an’ I go way back. He was my right-hand man! Me an’ him against his bitch of a— ”

“Guzma,” Wen says when she sees a trickle of blood drip onto the slate floor. She’ll have to disinfect the wound later. Guzma retreats then, unslinging his arm, and the teen bolts to sit on Nanu’s other side. 

“See, this is why I said we shouldn’t have come, Hau,” he jeers, spitting into a napkin.

“Aw, Dee! I like go holo holo with —”

“What?”

“I wanted to walk with ya! And you needed a break anyway. _And_ I wanted to ask you guys if Moon’s been around.”

Guzma’s face scrunches up as he leans back, throwing his uninjured arm around the back of Wen’s chair. 

“Haven’t seen your precious, outsider Champion in a year.” 

“Auwe! I really thought she might have stopped by here.”

“She hasn’t been around, kid,” Nanu says, slowly drinking the rest of his coffee. It better be decaf, or she’ll make his next dose sour as well as bitter. “She even sends a rep for some of the meetings.”

Hau sighs and props his head up in his hands.

“We haven’t played in such a long time. And we haven’t _battled_ in an even _longer_ time! Her secretary keeps telling me her schedule is super packed.”

“I thought the Champion isn’t given much jurisdiction over governmental matters until she is of age. Why is she busy?” Wen asks. 

“Right?! I don’t know why she has so many meetings and — and —” Hau scrunches his eyes and waves a hand, “— da kine! She should be having more fun! I wanted to eat malasadas with her.”

“If they don’t know anything, we should go.”

“Awwwww,” Hau complains, dragging out the syllable. “At least let me battle Nanu!”

“Ah, well, I’ve been told to take it easy for a couple of weeks, you see? Doctor’s orders.” Nanu keeps a perfect poker face while Wen narrows her eyes at him.

“You said that two weeks ago.”

“It was true two weeks ago, too. I’m an old man, Hau. I’ve got glass bones. Paper skin. You know. Da kine.”

“Don’t use da kine on me,” Hau grumbles. “Mr. Guzma, what about you? Let’s have a battle!”

“Nah.”

“Mr. Guzma, please! We haven’t battled in so long and —”

Guzma stands up, his chair screeching backwards. She startles, waiting for his swing, but he only taps the back of her head and then shoves his hands into his pockets, walking out into the sun. 

“See ya later, Wenny.” In the harsh light, steam floats up from the ground, making the bright red X on the back of his jacket waver. His hair seems to glow. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hau says delicately and then slumps forward onto the table. 

“Watch your fucking language,” Gladion shoots back, appalled. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“You’ve got a bug bite,” Nanu says, gesturing at his own neck. It’s still sunny, a miracle for Po Town. She frowns and checks the crook of her shoulder. She hadn’t felt anything bite her, and there isn’t a bump or any itchiness or... Her face flushes. “Yeah.” She moves her shirt to cover the hickey. “Interesting choice you’ve made.”

“Is it, Kahuna Nanu, shadow of the Island, guider of —” 

“Okay, okay.” He grimaces, brushing a few crumbs off the table. The rest of the malasadas that Hau had brought were already shoved inside the fridge. “Eye for an eye, I guess.” 

“Was the coffee you drank decaf, sir?”

“How could I go against your strict recommendations?” he says, his hand over his heart in mock piety. 

She wonders where Guzma is. Probably sitting in his dark room with the window up, watching the sunlight turn into a rainbow off that top shelf. Maybe he’s slouched over his laptop. Maybe he’s looking outside, quiet, watching the wind fan the top of the palm trees until, for a split second, they part enough to see a sliver of the turquoise sea. 

A meowth finally manages to get the window behind Nanu open by hooking his claws underneath the sill. Four of them climb out and yowl at her to pick them up. She picks _one_ up while the others clamber up by themselves.

“Are you happy?” he asks, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers over his stomach. 

“Of course.”

He snorts.

“At least take an acting class.”

Maybe he’s asleep, twisted into his disheveled sheets, dreaming. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: explicit sexual content, misgendering, referenced child abuse, violence, injures
> 
> honestly, if you think a character is trans, they probably are. oh, btw, sorry I haven't been drawing stuff. i just started teaching so I haven't had time to do anything

She always tries to put her clothes back on. Immediately. So he always has to pull her back into bed, where she squiggles for a moment before half-heartedly settling. 

He’s always liked marking his people, preferably on any visible stretches of skin. But she doesn’t like that, so he sucks bruises on to her breasts and thighs and belly and ass, purple-red against brown. Sometimes, she gently cards through his hair while he does so, and that turns him on enough to fuck her into the mattress a second time. 

She’s always quiet when she cums. She muffles herself into pillows, blankets, the back of her arms, his shoulder, her nails clawing red lines down his back. He wishes he could collect all the little sounds that spill from her lips into a bottle to open at his leisure. Instead, he drags another orgasm from her, watching her thighs tremble, listening to the shaky exhale of his name until she’s tired enough to stay and sleep and  _ stay._

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Would it be alright if I took tomorrow off?”

He stops biting into her shoulder so she can half-turn. 

“...Okay? I mean, I’m your boss but I ain’t your boss, girlie.”

“Well, tell them to keep out of trouble tomorrow,” she says, sleepy. 

“I’ll tell ‘em.” He refreshes this particular mark any chance he gets, the one on top of her right shoulder. Anytime she moves her arm, she’ll feel the slight sting and remember. He hopes, anyway. “What ya doin’ tomorrow?”

“I’d like to restock my supply.”

“Your plants an’ shit?”

“Yes. Some of them only grow in that forest.”

“Will ya be able t’ walk?” he grins and wiggles his eyebrows while she snorts and then yawns. 

“If I can’t, you’ll have to go in my stead as reparation.”

“What’s that mean? Reparation?”

“It’s the act of making amends for a wrong one has done. Noun.”

“Only thin’ I remember doin’ is you, ayyyy.”

She bursts into laughter at that, covering her mouth, and he flips her over to nuzzle into her chest, grinning. He likes her room, how quiet it is, away from the sibs for just a moment, surrounded by the million little objects that make her happy. He likes the smell of her skin, the soap and toothpaste she makes herself, the touch of smoke she gets from roasting herbs. “Want me t’ come?”

“I would appreciate your help, if you had time.”

He has nothing but time. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Could we bring Iro?”

“Huh? Why?” Guzma looks up from rifling through his backpack. 

“To keep the mosquitos away.”

“Ugh, can’t we bring Hoike?”

“Sure, if Hoike has an electromagnetic field that keeps away insects without harming them.”

Guzma groans, zipping his bag and shouldering it. He puts two fingers into his mouth to blow a shrieking whistle that has the fearows crying back. From the top of the mansion, a vikavolt streaks towards them. 

“Soap’s gonna be stupid jealous,” he mutters. Wen pats his arm and then Iro’s long mandible when he flies close enough to hover in front of her. She takes out half a pokébean from her backpack, holding it still when Iro hooks two of his front claws around her wrists to take a nibble.

She moves fast, mossy smoke wafting from the smouldering herb bundle in her incense burner. He’s used to halving his steps so Plumes or the sibs can keep up, but with her, they cover ground rapidly. Right before the ruins, she takes a hard left into the dense rainforest at the base of Mount Hokulani. There’s no trail.

“Yo, aren’t ya gonna get lost?” Iro darts ahead to buzz circles around her head. 

“I’ve been here before. My markers should still be up.” 

He shrugs and plunges into the undergrowth with her. 

There _ is no trail_ , and yet, she picks her way over the brush, still incredibly swift, finding little patches of dirt for her feet to avoid crushing the dizzying array of plants that swell up, close and humid. 

“Where the fuck are the markers?”

The smoke spirals across her jawline when she stops and dissipates in her hair. Points at a fork in a tree. He squints and sees a pine-green ribbon tied around the branch. Iro clicks and then hovers in front of Guzma, wanting to be held, but Guzma pushes him away. 

Eventually, they slow down as she starts to pick off little flakes of bark here, a bunch of roots here, always leaving at least half the herbs in the ground. For a moment, she stands still to strip the leaves off a frond of fern. Against the green, her pink hair stands out in a splash of color; she looks up at him and smiles, a real one, her eyes closing. The smoke hazes over her and for a moment, Guzma wonders if she’ll melt into the trees like a fairy, receding from his life like a wave.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” He scuffs the toe of his sneakers into the dirt. “Just wonderin’ how the fuck I’m supposed t’ help pickin’ plants. Or why the fuck Iro’s here.”

“The se’oa blend keeps most of the insects away, but some do get through. And,” she backtracks to him, plucking a leaf out of his hair, “am I not allowed to spend time with you?” Her words feel like an errant electric current down his spine. 

“Careful what ya say, girlie.” His grin is crooked, but he draws in to kiss her chastely. “Fuckin’ outside seems fun.”

“Not with the mosquitos.”

They sit on a log in a small clearing, sipping from the water bottles Guzma carried in his bag. Iro lands right next to Wen, who gives him the other half of the pokébean. The vikavolt delicately snags it with his mandibles before scurrying behind Guzma to eat it.

“Oh, shit,” he says, hurriedly swallowing his mouthful, “hey, Wen, look.” She follows the path of his finger to see a beetle perched on a tree several meters away. In the shadow of the canopy, she can barely make out the magenta splatters across its shell. “’S a koa bug. These thing’re hella rare, ‘cause of the deforestation shit.”

“Did someone spray paint it?” she asks, surprised. 

“Ha, nah, that’s their natural color. Cool, right? Glad they’re still around. I know the other bugs ain’t doin’ so hot.”

“Bees, you mean?”

“Well, not just them, but, yeah. Honey bees are a’ight ‘cause they’ll always have people t’ take care of ‘em, but people care less ‘bout the wild ones. I know the yellow-faced bee population’s fucked up, too.”

“Do they really have yellow faces?”

“Ehhh, ‘round their mandibles an’ between their eyes’re yellow. Black bodies, though, with like, yellow racin’ stripes on their legs. Pretty fuckin’ sexy.”

“I see. I like the, um, they have one long horn? They resemble an upside down dragonfly.” 

“Oh, yeah, brown with black dots, right? ʻAkoko planthoppers. Ya gotta be careful if ya touch ‘em. Can’t rub your eyes an’ shit. Dragonflies are cool, too.”

“They’re not that cool.”

“Hey, if ya haven’t seen a pinao just fuckin’  _ covered_ in dew drops, ya can’t talk to me ‘bout cool or not cool,” he argues. She laughs, covers her mouth again, but at least she’s laughing. He cups her cheek, his thumb brushing a streak of dirt across her skin. 

“You’re looking at me,” she says, closing her eyes and nestling into his hand. 

“Mm, I see ya sometimes—”

“I would hope so.”

He gives a fleeting grin.

“I go up t’ the roof when Plumes gets on my ass. Can see over the walls from up there.” He watches her eyes open. “I see ya by the ocean, sometimes, on the rocks, just starin’. Just… just starin’.” He remembers watching her, starkly black against a calm turquoise sea. Too far away to see the strands of her hair twist in the wind. Too close to hide the downward slope of her shoulders. “You look lonely.” Her face goes completely blank. “Are ya?”

She smiles, bland, bland, bland, bland, bland, bland, bland,  _ bland, bland, bland_.

“How could I be?” she responds, pulling away to stand up. She stretches in a long, lithe line and Guzma squeezes his hands into fists so he won’t shake her by her shoulders. “I have you, don’t I?”

“You do,” he says quietly. He hopes. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Alright, is everybody here?” Noah smacks his hand on the table in lieu of a gavel, his spinarak perched on his head. There are already fine cobwebs mixed into his dark hair. “Order in the court, I say! Order!”

“Get out of my seat, before I punt you,” snaps Naomi, shoving her brother with her shoulder. “I’m the fucking oldest—”

“No way! We’re the same fucking age!  _ You_ just popped out a second earlier, you underdone chicken nug—”

“And  _ you_ chose a new birthday when you picked your new name, so I’m  _ super_ older than you now.” Naomi finally edges Noah off her seat, who grumbles and slides into a new chair. She holds out her arms and Kon flutters gently into her hug. “Now! Order in the court, I say!”

“I did it way better,” Noah mutters. Naomi pointedly ignores him.

“We’re all here,” Junu chirps up, his legs swinging on his chair. 

“All here,” Ava echoes. 

“Okay! The 315th weekly meeting of the Skull Sibs will start! First on the list,” Naomi spins towards Toto, the masquerain’s antennae flapping, “hormones or nah?”

“Um… I think I — I would like some more-re time,” Toto whispers almost inaudibly, fidgeting with her fingers, her shoulders hunched as usual. 

“Time granted!” Naomi declares in a grand voice, and then furrows her brows. “I don’t wanna rush you, okay? But it, like, comes down to pros and cons, you know? Like, yeah, you’d be leaving, but as long as you tell ‘em beforehand, the case worker will prolly try to put you with someone who’ll pay for your stuff.” 

“Yeah, Tippy’s doing fine,” Ke’awe chimes in. “She said her fosters are pretty okay! Not like Boss and Big Sis, but okay.”

“Ugh, but fosters can be such a coin flip,” Akari says, putting little braids into her raticate. “At least our case worker is a’ight.”

“Very good point!” Noah cuts in. Naomi smacks him. He smacks her. Kon wiggles his antenna up and down in a stern warning before they can really start hitting each other. 

“ _ Anyway_, take your time, Toto. It’s a hard decision no matter what you decide. And if you wanna talk, Big Sis is  _ super_ good at this stuff. Akari, she talked you through stuff like this right?”

“Hell yeah! And we even took the ferry to Malie to get sodas! Best. Day. Ever.”

“Right! So, got that, Toto?”

Toto nods, cuddling her salandit closer to her chest. 

“Okay, second on the list, happy birthday, June Bug!”

The room explodes into cheers and whoops as Ava and Ke’awe each sling an arm around Junu’s neck.

“Our littlest Skull Sib has reached a tumal-tumolt-tumultuous age in his life!” Naomi leans over the table to air-five him, squishing Kon. “Thirteen’s a big number! Ava, what’s the chance Boss is gonna make poke soon?”

“I saw him take Iro down to the beach  _ and_ he was sharpening his knives this morning.”

“Fuck yeah!” Noah bellows, while Ke’awe drums the table excitedly. “Oh, damn, I hope he adds the spicy sauce.”

“ _The spicy sauce!_ ” Naomi and Akari sing, pointing into the sky. Toto giggles. The salandit sighs and climbs up onto her shoulders to drape across her neck.

“So what does the littlest Skull Sib want for his birthday?” Naomi asks when they’ve all settled. 

“A wimpod,” Junu says shyly.

“Oh, heck yeah, June Bug! Are you gonna, like, follow in Boss’s footsteps?” Ava asks, rubbing his back. 

“Maybe,” he grins, “also, if I ask him, he’ll probably take me himself to catch one.”

“Bruh, that’s some big brain shit, right there,” Akari says. 

“Well, we all hope you get some one-on-one time with him!” Naomi shuffles around some imaginary papers. “So for the final point of our meeting,” she clears her throat and stares at each of them in turn, “I think Wen is dating Boss. Opinions?”

“ _Hah?_ ” Noah looks at his sister like she’s lost her damn mind. 

Naomi flips him off. 

“Isn’t… that their business?” Toto offers. “I don’t kn-know if we should pry.”

“I’m not prying! I’m just,” Naomi waves her hand, “I’m just looking out for us. Because stuff might, like, change if they start dating or are dating.”

“Well, Boss is too cool for Wen,” Junu says crossly. There are murmurs of assent around the room. “Boss is too cool for  _anyone_.”

“Then it’s settled!” Naomi slaps her hand on the table. “Boss is too cool. If we see something, break it up!”

“Wen is pretty nice though,” Akari muses. “Boss _is_ too cool for her, but she’s nice. Fixed my arm up, remember? And when she was running through the hospital, talking to the doctors and fighting them on calling my parents? Hella cool.”

“I saw them once,” Noah says, his eyes screwed shut, massaging his temples, “in the backyard of the pokécenter, I think. And Boss had his head on Wen’s lap.”

“Did she hurt him?”

“No, you fucking id—  _no_ , he was just… dunno. Sleeping, I guess?”

“I like Wen,” Toto mumbles. “She made me tea. And she’s a girl, but-ut she’s taller than me.”

“You’re a girl, too!” Naomi shoots back.

“I’m a girl, too,” Toto concedes with a secret smile that lights up her entire face.

“Well, I don’t like her,” Junu argues. “She smells like stinky medicine all the time.  _ And_ she doesn’t even have her own pokémon, even though she’s a grown-up.  _ And_ —”

“Alright, little dude, we get it,” Ke’awe says. “Chill.” He crosses his arms and kicks the leg of the table, face stormy. 

“Okay, okay, so we all seem to have different—“

“And she sucks,” Junu interrupts quickly before shutting up under Naomi’s glare. 

“As I was saying, we all seem to have different opinions on this. So let’s, like, tell Boss that we’re kinda iffy about her. Any qu—”

“What?” Noah says, frowning. “But you can’t say it like that. That means all of us are iffy about her.”

“Yeah, but like, Boss will listen better if we all agree on it. And, like, if they really like each other, their relationship will overcome it or whatever.”

“We can’t just mess with their relationship like that! We should all talk separately with Boss if we need to!”

“No.”

“ _ What?_”

“I said, no! No way! We gotta be together on this or he won’t listen!”

“Maybe he won’t listen because it’s fucking  _ wack_.”

“It’s better to be cautious—”

“This isn’t being cautious! You're just straight up being a manipulative piece of shit like Mo—”

Naomi launches herself out of her chair and tackles Noah into the ground; the spinarak abandons his perch just in time and swings to the wall, squeaking. The room erupts into chaos as they brawl on the floor, kicking and screaming and —

“What’re you fuckers  _ doin’_!” Guzma roars, striding into the room with Kon fluttering to catch up. 

“Nothing!” comes a guilty chorus of seven voices. 

He stoops and pulls Naomi and Noah apart as easily as stickers. 

“Why the fuck you two fightin’ again?! Ya want me t’ kick both your asses?!”

“No,” they respond meekly, even though he’s never hit them. 

“You two should be settin’ a fuckin’ example ‘stead of —” he drops both of them on the floor and stands up. “ _ Plumeria_!”

“Oh, man, now we’re in trouble,” Noah grouses. 

“The rest of ya fuckin’ scram. You two, stay here ‘til Plumes comes. Tomorrow mornin’, both of ya walk your asses t’ Wen and tell her ya need t’ be fixed up ‘cause ya don’t know how t’ use your fuckin’ words.”

“Learned it from you, Boss,” Naomi snaps. 

He stops. Squats in front of her. 

“ _ Wanna say that again?_” he says softly, eyes and teeth gleaming dangerously. Naomi frantically shakes her head. Noah joins in.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“I fucked up,” Naomi says into the darkness of their room. 

“You did,” Noah responds, “but I fucked up, too.”

“‘M sorry. I still think I’m right but I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hit you.”

“And I’m sorry I said you were like Mom. You’re not.”

Both of them let out a deep sigh as they sink further down into their mattresses. The cut inside Noah’s mouth still stings, and Naomi’s jammed finger still aches. Truthfully, they  _ both_ ache all over; concrete floors, and all that. 

Noah mumbles something. 

“Stop touching the cut!”

“You’re so fucking bossy,” he complains, but stops poking it with his tongue. Of course, because he wanted to, and not because she said so. “Well? Do you think she’ll laugh at us?”

“How could she laugh when she got into that fist-fight with Boss?”

“Lmao, that’s true.”

Somewhere within the walls, a pipe creaks. 

“You know, even if she didn’t have that fight, I don’t think she would laugh.”

“Yeah?” Noah stuffs an arm under his head and settles on his side to face his sister, even if he can’t see her. She does the same, the blankets rustling. This is the only way they can sleep now, in this nostalgic, absolute darkness, a chair shoved under their doorknob to keep the memory of their mother from coming in. 

“You know, the week before the Island Standard, I was super struggling with systematic equations.”

“You were?”

“Yeah. And I was stressing ‘cause I didn’t wanna fail and get taken by our case worker.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“‘Cause you would have laughed at me! Can I finish my fucking story?”

“You’re right. I would’ve. Carry on.”

“So, I went to Wen ‘cause she seems smart, I guess? I thought if I was gonna get laughed at, might as well go to someone actually smart and not the rest of you morons.”

“You’re included in the moron pack, moron.”

“Can’t even argue with that. Anyway, I was getting ready to roast her, but she didn’t laugh.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah, and not even like a con-condi-condition? ...Con… The fuck... Condes-condescending! Not even like a condescending look. She just poured me tea and worked out the problem with me.”

“I fell asleep before you got that word out, sis — ow!” A stuffed animal pelts him square in the face. “What, so was she treating you like an adult?”

“No, it was more like… like, she was treating me like a teen, like I was younger than her, but that didn’t mean I didn’t deserve respect?”

Noah rubs his nose, thinking. 

“Did you understand the math, then?”

“Nah, she was a shit teacher.”

They both burst into hysterical laughter, their hyena cackles ripping through the air until Plumeria slams on the other side of the wall to get them to shut up. 

“What so, like — holy shit, I’m gonna pee — like, she couldn’t do it?”

“She could, lmao. She did it in her head, even. But when she tried to explain it to me, none of it made sense. Eventually, she said she learned it through memorization of a specific rule set ‘cause apparently, she’s fucking insane.”

“Does that mean you fucked up that part on the Standards?”

“Well, we’ll see when the results come in, but Boss actually helped me after. She called Boss to the kitchen and all three of us sat down like some haole coffee commercial.”

“Wah, make sure you don’t say that word in front of Boss.”

“I know, I know. But Boss is a  _ hella_ good teacher. I mean, nothing new, but it’s just really cool every time.”

“I know what you mean. He can do legit anything.”

They stifle another round of giggles. 

“Hey,” Noah says, voice soft.

“Yeah.”

“Do I laugh at stuff that hurts you?”

“ _ Hah?_ Of course you fucking do, but it’s not like I don’t do that either.” Naomi hears the crinkle of sheets and knows her brother is nodding. “I mean, what are we gonna do, just let people know that stuff hurts us? It’s better to laugh so they don’t know.”

“So they can’t use it against us, yeah. I don’t get why she doesn’t laugh at us. Sometimes, shit’s just objectively funny.”

“For real.” Another deep sigh from both of them. There’s a weird squelching sound as Naomi’s grimer sags deeper into the trash can, sound asleep. “But I guess it’s nice having someone that won’t laugh.”

“Maybe she doesn’t laugh ‘cause she  _ won’t_ use it against us,” Noah muses.

“Huh.”

“Yeah, like, maybe she doesn’t… think it’s a flaw or whatever. Like… we see knives, but she sees flowers.”

“That’s some Disney shit right there.”

“I know, it’s kinda gross.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

She doesn’t laugh. She gives Noah a solution to rinse his mouth with until the cut heals. She tapes up Naomi’s finger. Presses a poultice to their major scrapes and a different one for their worst bruises. 

She doesn’t laugh, and instead, smiles and pours them tea and carefully listens to them debate the merits of eating a manapua upside down versus right side up. 

“I eat mine upside down,” she says in the final judging. 

“Fuck yeah!” Naomi exclaims, holding her hand up for a high-five. Wen obliges. 

“Fucking savages,” Noah responds. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Guzma almost knows before Akari comes in. An electric feeling runs through his teeth, like he’s standing on a mountain during a thunderstorm, minutes before he hears her hurried footsteps. 

“My dad’s coming,” she gasps. He is out the door in seconds. 

Her father is a tall man, a stern man, built like the thousands of construction workers that help build up and then tear down the hundreds of small starter hotels that constantly change hands among the tens of wealthy foreigners. Behind him is another man who swings a metal pipe carelessly. But he’s shorter than Guzma. They all are. They always are. 

Her father frowns. 

“I’m just here for my son.”

Guzma barks a laugh. 

“‘Kari,” he snarls, “go back inside. Ya don’t need t’ hear this shit.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Akari whispers and slips past Toto back into the mansion. 

Her father moves to go after her but Guzma steps into him, smiling like his own father never did, teeth bared, eyes alight with a fire that never quite burns out, only dims. 

“I’m just here for my son,” the man repeats. 

“S577, dipshit.”

“ _ Excuse me?_”

Guzma put his hands on his thighs to lean down mockingly. 

“S577. Need me t’ dumb that down for ya, little boy? Your  _ daughter_ is emancipated under Alolan law. You were at the fuckin’ hearin’, or did that raisin brain rattlin’ around in your skull forget?”

“I won’t be bullied by a thug,” her father scoffs, squaring his shoulders and jabbing Guzma in the chest with a blunt finger. “There is no reason he should throw away a perfectly comfortable life for a phase he’ll outgrow.”

“Too bad ya didn’t outgrow your microdick.”

The sibs crow behind him, jeering and throwing increasingly filthier insults, loudly making bets on how fast Guzma will take both the men down.

“I have a  _ right_ to speak to him!”

“Ya lost that right the last time ya came. Remember that? When ya got beat up by a kid?”

Her father flushes. “Is this what you’re teaching all of them? How to throw insults and disrespect others? 

“At least he didn’t get dumped by his wife for having a metric fuckton of poképorn on his harddrive,” Noah sneers.

“A metric fuckton?” Naomi laughs, “More like all poképorn in Alola and Unova  _ combined._” 

It’s not true of course. None of it usually is. And her father won’t see it — their faces too blurred through the lens of his anger — but Guzma knows if he turned around, he would see the sibs’ eyes cataloguing every flinch in the man and his friend, calculatively adjusting their taunts until —

The sharp crack of the slap is muffled by the mist. Guzma feels his neck whip back with the force and the fire inside him sings through his blood, elated. 

“Ya get that, Plumes?” 

“Got it,” she says, texting the video to Nanu. “Go nuts.”

Guzma drives his fist so far into the man’s solar plexus that all the air in his lungs wooshes out painfully. The sibs scream delightedly behind him, egging him on as the other man with a pipe starts towards Guzma. His panicked swing is  _ so_ easy to read. Guzma catches the metal on his forearm and punches the man’s nose into a pulp. Someone jumps on his back, trying to choke him out. He simply drops backwards, using his entire weight, and they both go down. The back of Guzma’s head connects with teeth. The pipe comes down on him, but he rolls to the side and laughs when it hits the father’s sternum. Leaps up. Braces for the pipe again, but before it can strike a third time, Wen darts in, a blur of white, and kicks the man hard enough to hear his ribs dislocate. 

Blown sideways by the force of the impact, he tumbles to the ground, groaning faintly. The father tries to get up. Wen strides over and savagely stomps into his temple. He drops like a rock. 

She turns to Guzma. 

“Am I killing them?” she asks evenly, her hand already dipped into her satchel, her eyes mirroring his own inferno. 

“Nah,” he breathes, and forces himself to remember that people are watching and thus, he cannot tear off her whitecoat and fuck her against the wall here and now. 

The sibs swarm the losers, gleefully zip-tying the men’s limbs together, as well as their pockets, shoelaces, and every single button in the father’s faded flannel. 

He closes his eyes and takes inventory. His arm hurts. So does his ankle and knee. He tastes copper in his mouth and when he touches the back of his head, his fingers come away wet with blood. Not bad. Definitely could be worse. 

“Nanu’s on his way,” Plumes calls out. 

“A’ight,” he says. Wen steps closer to him, close enough to kiss. He doesn’t. 

“You’re limping,” she murmurs into his ear. 

“Definitely developin’ a weird kink here,” he whispers back, but she doesn’t laugh. 

“I need to feel your arm before the adrenaline wears off.” She does. “It’s not broken, at least. I think it might be fractured.”

“Sick.”

She scowls at him, and he checks himself before he leans in to kiss it away. 

“Where else does it hurt?”

“Knee. Ankle. Don’t do it here. The sibs’ll see.”

She scowls again and quickly signs something to Plumeria, who gives a thumbs up. 

“Can you walk to your room?” 

“Don’t,” he stops her when she tries to support him. He straightens up and walks forward normally. Every step sends a shooting pain up his left leg but he breathes through it. High-fives Noah and walks. Ruffles Toto’s hair and walks. Pats Akari’s shoulder and walks. 

Only when they’re out of sight does he let Wen help him up the stairs. 

“You’re kinda nice t’ lean on.”

“Our heights are similar, after all.”

“An’ you’re hella strong.”

“And I’m hella strong,” she concedes. He snickers. 

In his room, she lowers him carefully onto the bed and immediately kneels to press careful fingers into his ankle, the back of his knee. He watches how the watery light pours over her, sparkling faintly on the bobby pins that keep her hair plastered to her skull. 

“These are sprains.”

“Yeah. Just landed wrong.”

“How much do they hurt? On a scale of zero to ten.”

“...Four?”

“Four? What about your arm?”

“Uh, six.”

“ _ Six?_ Guzma, you stopped a pipe with this arm. You—” she stops abruptly and swears. His eyebrows jump up in surprise. 

“Woah, princess, haven’t heard ya use that word before.”

“You must have a higher tolerance due to your chronic pain. We should go get an x-ray done.”

“It’s a’ight. Don’t have the money for the Malie center.”

“If your arm is broken and we don’t set it correctly, it will continue to hurt. Especially once the adrenaline wears off.”

“I hurt anyway,” he shrugs. “No biggie. Ya said it’s a fracture, yeah? ‘S long as the fuckin’ bones ain’t poking out, should be a’ight.”

“...Then let me get a sling—”

“Nah.”

“ _ Pardon?_” she spits out, incredulous.

“You can wrap my knee an’ ankle. No sling. Don’t want the sibs t’ see I’m hurt. They’ll think it’s their fault,” he says, then runs the thumb of his uninjured arm over her bottom lip. “C’mon, stop bitin’ like that. You’re bleedin’.” She stops, and he wipes away the blood that dribbles down her chin. 

“Fine. I’ll get a soft cast for your arm. Wear long sleeves.” 

“Thanks, girlie.”

She doesn’t answer and instead, bandages his ankle and knee and arm with sharp, irritated movements. He watches her. Slides a bobby pin out of place. Another. Lightly combs through her silky hair, listening to the tick of another pin hitting the floor. He grins at the annoyance on her face and pulls her in to kiss her forehead. 

“You’d be a good doctor,” he says.

For a single, sacred second, Wen makes an expression he’s never seen before. Something that makes her eyes go wide and soft, like a kid. Disbelief? Surprise? But then, she slumps forward against his thigh, burying her face into his sweatpants, sighing.

“...You okay?” he asks, stunned.

“Yes.” Her voice is muffled. “Just the adrenaline.” She breathes on a four count for a couple of minutes. He continues brushing through her hair, watching her chest rise and fall. She tilts up her face to meet his eyes, her head still against his thigh, hands folded in her lap. 

“You okay?” he asks again. 

“Stay here. Let me run to the center to get a soft cast.” When she tries to stand up, he places a firm hand on her shoulder and pushes her back into a kneel. She blinks. Her eyes dart downward. 

“You’re hard.”

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” she replies, amused. 

“Dunno,” he grins. “Ya ever blow someone?”

She hums and leans forward to rub her cheek on the inside of his thigh.

“No, but I’ve been watching practice videos.”

“Practice videos?” he laughs.

“I assumed oral sex would be nice sooner or later. Was I wrong?”

“You usually ain’t.” He kisses her, slowly, licking at the roof of her mouth until she relaxes. “Hey, doc, I got somewhere else that’s in pain.” 

Her face twists up in a grimace so vivid that he bursts into laughter.

“Are you… roleplaying?” she chides, eyes still squinted as she watches him cackle. 

“Won’t — won’t ya take a look at — Wen,  _ your face_ — take a look at my dick, doc?” he chokes out, gasping. “Man, I won’t be movin’ my arm any time soon. Might need some  _ help_, ya know?”

“Your non-dominant arm, yes. And last time I checked, most people have two arms.”

He smiles, but it’s wilder this time, flashing his canines. Reaches out to grip her jaw in his hand. 

“Yeah, but I kinda feel like usin’ your mouth,” he murmurs, placing his thumb at the seam of her lips. She sighs again but opens her mouth obediently. He feels her shiver when he rubs her tongue. “Get up.” He throws a pillow on the ground before pulling her down between his legs again. “Not sure how long ya gonna be down there. What flavor ya want?”

“Flavor?”

He rummages through his nightstand before holding up a condom in a brightly-colored packet she’s never seen before. 

“Non-flavored rubbers taste like shit. I got orange, cherry, and hondew berry.”

“...Orange.”

He hands her the packet and then kisses her again.

“Ya look great like this.”

“We haven’t done anything, yet.”

“That’s how great ya look.” He kisses her again, sweeter, before groaning and rolling back his shoulders. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Do you want to lie back?” She helps him wiggle down his pants and briefs and roll on the condom. It does smell like oranges.

“Nah. Wanna watch ya. And teach ya, in case ya bite my dick off.”

“Your confidence in me is compelling,” she responds before running the back of her nail up his shaft, a bead of pre-cum already pooling at the tip underneath the translucent rubber. He shudders. Laces his fingers into her hair, gentle. 

“Let’s fast-forward a bit.”

“Foreplay is important,” she frowns.

“Foreplay was when ya kicked in that asshole’s ribs. Thought I was gonna cum in my fuckin’ pants.” He tugs her hair and she follows easily, opening her mouth to press the head of his cock against her tongue. Even through the condom, he can feel the heat, the slick softness. “There ya go. Put your hand on my thigh. Tap if ya don’t like it, a’ight? I’ll stop.” She nods and closes her lips around him when he pulls her just slightly further down. He laughs hoarsely as her tongue tries to wrap around his shaft. “Wanted t’ press ya up against the side of the house and fuck ya in front of all of ‘em. God, you feel good. Breathe.” 

She pushes down further, and he chuckles at the furrow she gets between her brows when she concentrates. He guides her up and then pushes her down again. Once. Twice. Pulls her off completely, watching the way her lips redden, the dart of her tongue licking off the streak of lube on her chin. 

“Doin’ okay?”

“You can be more rough,” she states. 

His grip on her hair tightens. He pulls her down again, deeper, chasing the back of her throat. She lets him fuck into her mouth until she’s three-forths of the way there, his cock grinding into her. Her other arm wraps around his waist, pushing herself closer. She doesn’t tap, but when he feels her throat constrict, he pulls her off. 

“Take it easy,” he says. Kisses her through the pain running down his shoulder blades. She tastes like artificial oranges. “You’re a good girl,” he whispers into her inhale. She melts into him, one hand on his thigh, the other loosely stroking the base of his dick. “You like that? You like bein’ good for me?” She doesn’t answer, but opens her mouth again, her thighs fidgeting against each other. 

He cums with the click of her swallowing around him, her lips and tongue squeezing into his shallow thrusts. Her face is flushed when she draws back, eyes hazy, blood and spit dripping down her chin onto the floor. He can see the little indents that she bit into her lip. 

“That’s my girl,” he quietly praises, wiping her face with a corner of his sheets. Brushes a thumb over the two little freckles under her eye. She seems to glow under his words, closing her eyes and letting him caress her jaw, her ear, the slight dip under her cheekbone. But when his injured arm moves to cup her face, her eyes snap open in a glare. 

“Don’t move that arm,” she orders, her voice rougher than usual. He places it back on the bed in easy surrender as she stands. “I’m going to get the soft cast. Stay here.” He catches her hand to press an open-mouthed kiss into the center of her palm. 

“Won’t ya lemme eat ya out?”

She jerks her hand back like his mouth was a brand sizzling into her skin. 

“ _ No_,” she snaps. Guzma blinks. She exhales. “No. No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Okay.” He makes sure his voice is completely neutral and unbothered. He doesn’t want to pressure her. He  _ won’t _pressure her. “That’s okay.”

“Stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: triggers, violence, remembered abuse, trust issues, smoking, remembered sexism that seems unrealistic but I got it straight from my experience so fuck you dad, surgery mention, mild sexual content

Wen comes back, panting, soft cast shoved deep into her satchel so none of the sibs would see it, and when she soundlessly opens the door, she catches him glancing idly out the window, hair fluffed up, a hint of sweat still drying at his temple. It’s as if all the static rushes out of her head and swirls out the open window to disappear into the mist. He notices her and flashes a lopsided grin. 

“‘M surprised you're not more mad at me,” he mentions, holding his arm still while she tightens the black velcro of the cast. Her eyes flick upward and then back to her work. Heat radiates off him, and she can’t help but to trace the veins in his hand that end at purpling knuckles. 

“Why would I be angry?” she questions, voice still rough. 

She feels him shrug, shoving his unaffected hand into the pocket of the pants he managed to get on before she came back. 

“Ex-boyfriend used to hate it. Called it entrapment or whatever. Said I should just leave it to the law.”

“Akari’s emancipation was under the law, but her father didn’t respect that. Rules will not work against someone disinterested in following them.” She squints. “Did you have a tattoo here?”

“Yeah. Skull’s symbol. Got it removed in exchange for not gettin’ my ass arrested with Lusamine.”

She helps him take off his tee in place of a black shirt with longer sleeves. It’s soft and worn with age. She rubs the collar of it between her fingers, knuckles brushing against his jugular. All his injuries are hidden from view now. “Wenny.” He watches her with eyes softer than the shirt. Her fingers slide across the back of his neck, unconsciously finding pressure points. “Thanks.”

“I’d rather you wear a sling than thank me,” she fusses but accepts his kiss. Another. They both still taste like oranges. The last kiss never comes. Instead, before she pulls away, he cups the back of her head and presses their foreheads together. Noses. He breathes in, smoothing down the nape of her neck. 

Like the roar of a train screaming through a tunnel, her focus shuts down to their points of contact, blaring out the sound of breathing, this quiet room. Behind her, she feels her father’s hand touch her shoulder in punishment, and before he can reach Guzma, she shoves him away, accidentally slamming his knee with her own while scrambling to put distance between them. She darts back to the far side of the room when he yelps, hand moving to grip at his leg. Her heart crowds into her throat while her nails scrape at the neon walls she’s pressed again. When Guzma looks up, his eyes are wide and dazed.

They stare at each other through the dust of this dim room, unmoving, the silence stretching between them like a thread of molten glass. 

“...Thought ya told Hau you were born here.”

“...I am.”

“So, ya know what I did, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Then why’d ya freak out?”

“I just —” she blinks fast enough for her thoughts to recede, but the train still screeches, persistent, disorientating. “Adrenaline.”

His face slowly screws up in anger as he stands, back straight, one arm swinging uselessly at his side. 

“ _No! _ What the hell were you gonna say before that!”

She takes four breaths before answering, and Instructor Pono’s voice joins the rattle of cymbals behind her eyes.

“There was nothing before that.”

“Do ya think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” 

“You should sit down and rest your knee while you can. Your ankle as —”

“Don’t think I don’t fuckin’ notice ya changing the fuckin’ subject!” he shouts, hurling his end table into the wall with a crash that shakes her vision. “I lived sixteen years of my goddamn life _learning _ how to fuckin’ dodge questions from someone way better at it than you, asshole!”

Some part of her is still in the past, still watching him stare out the window. Some part of her is still quiet, drowning, while time here seems to accelerate in a way that should be impossible.

“...Are you angry because I wouldn’t do what you wanted?”

“ _What? _ I’m angry ‘cause you don’t answer _shit _ about yourself! We’ve known each other for more than a fuckin’ year, and I still don’t know the fuckin’ _basics _ about who you are!”

She folds her hands in front of her. Her whitecoat has a crimson splatter of blood along the lapel. When someone is angry, you must bow your head. She should know this; she hopes it’s not too late when she does.

“What could you want to know?”

“What about your fuckin’ family line for starters?!” His voice is loud, but it’s nothing compared to the shrieking inside her. “Your siblings?! Your prison sentence, your other friends, your allergies, y—”

“But why is that necessary?” she asks, her voice perfectly flat, carefully modulating her cadence until it sounds friendly. She feels him take a seething step forward. 

“Why is it necessary to know what my fuckin’ girlfriend’s allergies are?! Are ya batshit insane?! Why are you hidin’ everythin’ from me?! I’ve told you —”

“If you’re disappointed at the rate of information exchange, then I suggest we separate,” she says. He stalls, balancing his weight on his good leg. His sneakers are scuffed. When she looks up, she can see his face is pale. “I don’t owe you information about myself. If collecting facts is important to you, then we won’t be a good fit.” He’s the one that looks away first. Rubs his face with his hands, shoulders sagging, slouching into himself. He steps towards his bed to sit back down, covering his face with both hands. “Please refrain from using your injured arm.”

“It’s not about collecting facts.” His voice is muffled, edged with the threat of tears. “Don’t twist my fuckin’ words.”

“I can give you a week to think about whether you’d like to continue this relationship or not.” When he doesn’t answer after a meticulously counted sixty seconds, she collects her bag from the foot of his bed. He doesn’t look up. “I’d like your decision by then.” Another sixty seconds. She starts towards the door.

“Was it just me, then,” he asks, her footsteps almost masking his quiet, quiet, quiet question. “Was I the only one interested?”

She pauses. Turns and smiles, even though he isn't watching. 

“Try not to use your arm,” she says and shuts the door behind her slowly, elegantly, so it doesn’t make a sound. 

Habits, habits, —

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“— habits?” Plumeria asks from the door of the pokécenter. Wen blinks. Sets down her teacup on the red counter. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Pardon me, I was thinking of something else. Would you like to take a seat?”

“I’m not here to say hi. Or for long.”

“I see. Then, would you like something to drink?”

“No.” 

Wen has trouble looking at her, with the sunset staining the room in pinks and oranges. Her silhouette is familiar, though. A déjà vu that Wen saw throughout high school. 

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Guzma just asked me if I knew who your parents were. He didn’t even ask me to tell him. He just wanted to know if _I _ knew.”

“I see.”

She can hear Plumeria’s teeth grind from across the room and frowns.

“Plumes, don’t do that.”

“You know what? I _will _ have a seat.” Plumeria drags one of the squishy armchairs clustered around a low coffee table squarely in front of Wen. Sits down with a thump, leaning her arms on the red counter between them. Wen tries not to smile at the intensity in her eyes, as if she’s trying to telepathically beam her questions to Wen’s brain. “I think you lie a lot.”

Wen’s brows furrow at the sudden accusation. 

“That’s untrue. I rarely lie.”

“No, you do lie a lot. Just, to yourself.”

“That’s between myself and I, then, isn’t it?” Wen smiles. Plumeria doesn’t. Her expression doesn’t change at _all _ . She gazes at Wen, just eyeliner today, her hair twisted into a clean, sorbet-colored bun on top of her head. Her nails are a pale blue this week, with a sparkly sheen, almost hidden into the sleeves of one of Guzma’s sweaters. 

“Wenny, I love you.”

A rush of affection threatens to suffocate her. Wen clamps a bruise onto her thigh, under the table where Plumeria can’t see.

“Love you, too. More than anyone.”

“Do you remember when I asked you out in high school?”

Wen tilts her head at that. 

“Of course.”

“Do you remember what you said to me when you turned me down?”

Her brows quirk down, thinking, rapidly flipping back through nine year’s worth of memories. The sun glows around Plumes, outlining her, throwing her cool shadow across one of the cracks on the plastic of the counter. 

“I don’t.”

Plumeria offers a small smile at her words, leaning back into her chair, crossing her arms. 

“Figures. It was the best advice I ever got, you know? And you didn’t even mean it as advice.” She closes her eyes and her head lists to the side. To the world, she looks asleep. “You took me into an empty classroom, and I actually thought you were accepting my confession and taking me somewhere private to bang or whatever. But you picked up a piece of chalk and drew a goddamn diagram outlining what a power imbalance in a relationship was. You made me take _notes _ . You don’t remember?” She sighs. “And when you finished confusing the crap out of me, you told me that the gap between a freshman and a junior was too big. And that you didn’t trust yourself to not take advantage of that. So you wouldn’t even try.” Her eyes snap open, golden, fiery. Her voice is level. “That’s what you told me.” She leans forward, elbows on the counter now, gold behind her, gold inside her, pinning Wen to a corkboard like a butterfly. “Do you think it’s fair, what you’re doing right now? What you did? You accepted a relationship knowing you would never try to balance the scales.”

Wen opens her mouth. Closes it. Plumeria stares at her. Through her. 

“Will you leave? If I separate from him?”

“Leave where?”

“Me. Leave me.”

Her face scrunches up in bewilderment. 

“ _Hah? _ No, of course not. We made a blood pact.”

“I don’t remember doing something so questionable.”

Plumeria laughs at that, dimples appearing in her tanned skin. The sun has always suited her, at every latitude. Alola’s sunsets highlighted her hurtling across the field during soccer. Sunrise painted her slumped over her desk in the classroom, yawning before the teacher would enter and start homeroom. And noon, noon was two days ago, sitting next to each other on the bench under the awning, taking neat bites of her onigiri while Wen swallowed her portion as fast as she could in a dirty habit, habit, h—

When Plumes opens her eyes, she startles upward, half rising out of her chair, her hands hovering nervously towards Wen. 

“Are you okay? Did you hurt something?”

“Pardon?”

Plumeria gingerly takes the sleeve of her sweater to dab at Wen’s eyes. It still smells like chocolate, deodorant, the smear of Iro’s pokébeans. 

“Oh,” Wen says, and lets Plumes wipe a drop off her jaw. “I guess something got in my eye.” Plumeria gives a worried half-smile, taking Wen’s hand and squeezing it. Her hands are smaller than Wen’s, softer and prettier. Less scars, less callouses, less bony.

“You look so sad,” she says, her voice only quaking on the very last word. “I didn’t leave you when you killed a dude, right?”

“You didn’t. But neither did my parents.”

“But I didn’t leave you after your surgery, either.”

“You didn’t.”

“Do you think about that a lot? Me leaving?” Plumeria asks. Wen doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says nothing. “It’s not something you should worry about. Whatever you do. Okay?”

She says nothing. Plumeria kisses the back of her hand, then folds it between hers, like a prayer. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

He’s not in his room. 

But the window above his desk is thrown open, carrying in the ubiquitous scent of the sea. She pokes her head out. There are handholds bolted to the siding of the house, leading upwards; they’re made for someone her height. So she climbs, easily, and pulls herself over the edge of the roof to find him sitting cross-legged on a beat-up cushion, cigarette between his lips, an ashtray balanced on his thigh. 

“...Thought the cutoff was tomorrow mornin’,” he says warily. He takes one more lungful of smoke and then presses out the last of it into the ashtray. Exhales slowly while she picks her way carefully over to where he sits, back pressed against a haphazard plywood wall, smoke swept away by the wind. 

“It is. Was. I came to talk,” she says. The stars aren’t as bright as they used to be, crowded out by the resort lights, but between them and the moon, Guzma’s hair seems to shine faintly.

“What if I don’t wanna?”

At that, she wrings her hands anxiously, weighing out the possibility. He chuckles, shifting over on his cushion and patting the space next to him as if they’d never fought. Instead, she kneels in front of him as best as she can on the slope of the roof, the chill of the metal seeping through her jeans into her knees. Opens her mouth to start when he yanks her out of her position, onto the pillow. 

“I _hate _ it when ya do that,” he hisses, fuming. His breath smells like smoke. “We _both _ went t’ a pretentious-ass school. We _both _ know what that means, so _stop it. _ If you’re gonna talk, then talk like a fuckin’ equal, _Arceus _ .” He crushes the empty cigarette carton in his hand and slams it down next to him. The ashtray tips off his thigh and spills dust into the breeze.

“...It’s a habit.” 

“Yeah, from finishing school. I fuckin’ get it. Say somethin’ new.”

“No. From my parents,” she corrects. He stills. Her hands are cold. She flexes her fingers, choosing the best words in the best order. “They... told me I would spend most of my life kneeling. Respecting my husband. Caring for my kids.”

“...You were married?”

She shakes her head, shifting back so her head is pressed against the plywood as well. 

“I wasn’t. But I would be, eventually. It was just a matter of time. I spent twenty-two years thinking that all of my roads ended at an appropriate suitor my mother would choose and five children to continue our line, like my father wanted. You asked me if I had siblings. I don’t. It was just me.” When she opens her mouth again, all her carefully prepared words seem to die in her throat. She coughs. Tries again. She doesn’t want him watching her. She _does _ want him watching her. 

“...Then you went to prison,” he fills in, voice soft. 

“I — I did. My father convinced the judge to drop a voluntary manslaughter into an involuntary. And they were angry, of course, but not as angry as the time I suggested carpentry over home economics. It just... wasn’t important to them. I found out later that prison time isn’t that uncommon in the main branches. White collar crime.” She laughs, hanging her head. “They thought it was... cute that I had defended some pokémon. It meant I would be a good mother. But,” and here, a spike of memories suddenly erupts in her mind before she closes her eyes and imagines them floating past her, lanterns on an unknown river, winking until they fade into the mist. When she counts to ten, she’s here, on the roof, with Guzma beside her, warm. “But in prison… I mentioned during the physical that I would pass out, sometimes, during my menstrual cycle, from pain. My mother told me that was normal.”

“That’s not,” he replies, shocked. Wen tucks her knees to her chest. 

“It’s not. Turns out I had uterine fibroids the size of apples.” Her laugh is strained. She doesn’t look at him. “So I had surgery. And they got rid of it. All of it. Because that’s what I wanted. Because I thought it was okay. Because, compared to murder, this was nothing. It was for the health of their daughter, right?” She buries her face in her knees, shrinking down, because the gift of hindsight meant bearing witness to her twenty-two years of naïveté. She wanted to shake her eight-year-old self, then again at sixteen, and again at twenty. She wanted to slap the twenty-two-year-old _moron _ who made a choice that couldn’t be fully labeled as good or bad until at least thirty years down the line. The wind dies down. Her heart beats painfully in her ears. “My parents never contacted me again. Just… never. Not even to yell at me. They dropped off my birth certificate and social security card in a used envelope and then cut contact. _Guzma _ ,” she squeezes her hands between her knees, hunching her shoulders forward, “Guzma, I spent twenty-two years thinking I was loved only for them to leave me once they understood I had no worth. So, how long will it take you to leave me?”

“...What?” Even the sound of his voice is static. 

“ _How long will it take you to leave me? _ At what point will you decide that I am no longer valuable? When I tell you my allergies? When I tell you my family name? Or will it be my appearance in high school or my bedtime schedule or my dislike of watermelon or my — I don’t _know! _ I don’t — I don’t understand! Which Jenga piece of information will I say someday for you to —” She jumps when he grabs her hand, nails wet with the blood she was scratching from her forearm. His eyes are wide, furious and distressed, and a tear drips from his chin onto his shirt. “No, don’t cry! Please, don’t cry or I’m going to start crying and I don’t want to sway your ob-objective decision and —” She jumps again when he presses his forehead to hers. Nose. Breathes in. She takes a great, shuddering breath. He cups her face with his hands and watches her clutch his wrists and break apart in front of him. 

“Ladybug,” he whispers. 

“I can’t promise I’ll answer-er your questions,” she sobs, clenching and unclenching the material of her sweater between white-knuckled fingers. “But if you give me a day-ay or an hour or just, just _time _ , I prom-promise I can try. But that’s all I — all I have. I don’t have anything more I can _give. _ ” She pulls away from him, scrubbing her eyes with her arm, smearing blood along her brow. “I like you. I’m sorry. I swear I’m not crying to change your mind.” He scoots closer and takes her into his arms, tucking her against his shoulder, rocking her. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, kissing her forehead. She’s small like this, huddled into herself like she wants to disappear. “Yeah, I know ya. Don’t know _about _ ya, but I know ya. Know ya wouldn’t do that.” She can feel his chest rise with every breath, and the little hiccups that catch on the edges of his lungs. 

“You asked me once. You asked me if I were lonely. And I said I wasn’t, but I _am. _ ” Her voice breaks. “I _am _ lonely.”

“I know. I know.” He soothes a line down her spine. “I was... thinkin’ ‘bout how t’ say this the whole week. I’m not tryin’ t’ collect facts ‘bout ya so I can fill out some… bank registration forms or some shit, ladybug. I just don’t... don’t want ya to be alone. Or t’ hurt alone. Just you, on that beach, while the storm rolled in.” He pulls away just enough to fish a cloth out of his pocket. 

“You have a handkerchief,” she states, surprised, while he wipes the blood and tears from her face, then presses down on the scratches along her arm. 

“Yeah, you’re rubbin’ off on me.”

Discreetly, like Plumeria did, she dabs at his tear tracks with the cuff of her sleeve, sniffs, then lets herself be held. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

“Be careful,” she calls out, crossing her arms tightly. Guzma effortlessly swings back through the window on one arm and one leg, looming over her for a moment before stepping off his desk.

“Help me get this off,” he says, starting to wiggle out of his sweater.

“Oh, are we —”

“Nah.” His hair sticks up, and even more so when he runs a hand through it. He tosses the sweater at her. “Wear this over ya shirt.”

“...I’m not cold.”

“Ya get cold at night.” He hops out of his pants and shoes. Dives into bed and groans when he hits his knee. 

“Guzma!” She bolts to his side, but he only laughs and pulls her in. 

“My bad. C’mon, put it on. Ya shiver when ya sleep.”

“I do?” It comes over her head easily, warm and cozy, the sleeves just right. Smells like him. Her eyes feel puffy. 

“Yeah. And ya stick t’ me like a fuckin’ remoraid. ‘S cute, but I move around a lot. Don’t wanna wake ya. C’mon.” He lays down and pats the spot next to him. She frowns.

“We should sleep differently. Your arm is injured.”

“What, ya wanna be big spoon?”

“I’ve never been the little spoon until I met you,” she says. “I can be the big spoon once in a while.”

“Nah, c'mere. Promise I’ll be careful.”

She resists for one second, two, ten, until he grins, easy, and pats the bed again, dark circles steeped into the skin under his eyes. It’s not her fault that he’s like a hot pack pressed against her back, his uninjured arm shoved under her pillow, his injured arm propped on her hip, hand tracing lazy shapes on her stomach. 

“You skipped acupuncture this week,” she says, feeling his exhale on the top of her head. 

“Yeah, well, ‘m not nice enough t’ let needles near my back while we’re fightin’,” he grumbles. She laughs, and then sucks in a frightened breath when he traces the thin scar that runs down from her navel. Jerks away reflexively, further into his chest. His other hand leaves the pillow to steady her jaw as he presses kisses into the crook of her neck. “Right here?” A minute passes before she can nod. 

“Is it disgusting?” she asks. 

“Eh? Does it matter what I think? Love your body, uh… everyday… an’ shit.” He releases her and slides his hand under her pillow again. Pats her stomach with the other. “Anything ya do’s pretty. Sometimes it’s annoyin’.”

“...annoying?”

“Yeah, like, you’ll do your stupid customer service smile an’ I’ll fuckin’ hate it but I’ll still wanna put your hands in my pocket ‘cause they’re probs cold since you’re movin’ ‘em so much.”

“I don’t understand how that relates.”

“‘S hard to explain.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“Always do.” 

She can hear his smile, and in her head, the sea begins to patiently fill the crevices of the eternally deafening city in her head, blurring the shine, the sounds, the warm water flecked with sand. She imagines being giant, crouched on one of the asphalt freeways, overlooking the skyscrapers rising next to her like so many stalagmites. She imagines tapping out the lighted windows one by one until the ocean swells past her head. Underwater, there’s only a heartbeat. 

“I… um.”

“Hm?” He sounds sleepy, even though it’s before midnight. 

“I… don’t want kids.”

“Me, too. High-five,” he mumbles. “This mean we can fuck raw?” A half breath of silence, then, he jolts upward. “Oh, shit, I did _not _ mean t’ say that.”

She can’t stifle the first four syllables of the uncontrollable laugh that bursts out of her mouth but manages to stuff her face into the pillow so she can convulse through the rest of it in peace.

“Oh, man,” Guzma whines, trying to flip her around, “don’t laugh, Wenny. Tapu Bulu, I gotta brain somewhere in here, I fuckin’ swear...” He shakes her lightly, and manages to catch the last four seconds of her desperately gulping down air.

“I —” She giggles, grabbing fistfuls of the duvet as Guzma brushes the errant strands of her hair away from her eyes. 

“Sorry,” he says, bumping his lips onto her eye in the dark, slowly working downward until he finds her mouth. “Didn’t mean that. I mean, I _did _ mean that, but, ugh.”

“Are you clean?” she manages to choke out.

“Yeah, but I can get tested, too. I know I look like this.”

“Like what?”

“...Like, ‘ayy, girl, I put the STD in stud an’ all I need is you’.”

She shatters into a fresh fit of frantic laughter, louder, unashamed, wishing she can take a polaroid of him protesting next to her and tape it to her bedroom mirror. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: prison mention, murder mention, explicit sex scene

“Would you like to see a picture of me in high school?” she offers, her voice almost washed away by Deadpool monologuing, too low to be heard by the sibs. Guzma’s head snaps up, as does Plumeria’s. Hoike half-raises his, but settles back down on Soap’s shell. 

Wen won’t meet Guzma’s eyes, and instead, spins her phone around and around in her hands, like it’s a river stone. 

“Yeah,” he says neutrally, and scoots closer, throwing his injured arm across the back of the couch. 

“Okay. Gummy, do you want to see?”

“Please let it be an archery picture,” Plumes begs under her breath, squishing herself against Wen. She lets out a shaky laugh and wraps an arm around Plumeria’s shoulders before unlocking her phone.

And it’s there, waiting for them, as if she had been deliberating all night. Guzma leans closer. 

The Wen-in-the-picture isn’t smiling. She’s talking with someone. Maybe a teacher. This Wen has longer hair, almost down to her waist, with flowers tucked behind her ear and the dappled sunlight casting an uneven glow across unscarred skin. Little, sparkly earrings. Muted, green nail polish on perfectly manicured hands that hold neatly labeled binders to her chest. Simple white blouse that tucks into a navy skirt. 

“Whoa, that’s good camera quality. Did Yearbook take that?”

“Yes, but it was one of the cut pictures.”

“Do you have any archery ones?”

“Yes.” She closes the picture and scrolls down. He checks the title of the folder.  _ Yearbook _ , it says, and nothing else. “I think you haven’t seen this one.”

Now her hair’s tied up. Eyes closed and calm. She’s wearing stiff, traditional robes, her earrings taken out. There is a bow resting on her lap. But she’s kneeling, her posture perfect, and Guzma thinks about building the technology needed to reach into the picture to pull her up and out and away. 

“ _ Next _ ,” he snarls. Both Wen and Plumeria look up at him, startled. “Fuck, sorry.” He puts a hand on the nape of her cool neck, running a thumb behind her ear. “Just don’t like the kneelin’. Sorry. Nothin’ against ya.” Plumeria scowls and mouths a vehement curse at him before Wen can see. 

“Oh. Um.” She flicks to the next picture. Guzma and Plumeria blink. 

She’s smiling. One side of her hair is tucked behind her ear, clipped back with an unsettlingly familiar ornament in the shape of golden feathers. The two little freckles are covered with concealer while her lips are smooth and unbitten with a subtle touch of gloss. She’s wearing a traditional dress this time, blue embroidered with golden thread, a heavily jeweled sash around her waist. 

She’s smiling. She’s smiling but  _ Arceus _ , she looks so fucking —

“Oh,” whispers Plumeria, as if she’d been punched. “Oh, you weren’t happy in high school, either. Oh, I’m so  _ dumb _ .”

“No, I was,” Wen chides, but clicks the phone off and hugs Plumeria, cradling her and pressing her lips to the crown of that multi-colored head. “Don’t worry. I was.”

None of the sibs are looking back, absorbed in the flashes of gunfire. He glances twice to make sure, and then turns her head gently so he can kiss her, fingers curving behind her ear to wipe away the remnants of that family crest she wore like a crown of thorns. She jerks away, but this time, he doesn’t mind, and wraps an arm around both of them before turning back to the movie. 

“You guys really macking in front of me, huh.”

“Shut up,” he states, barely even pinching Plumes because his arm hurts. She lurches out of Wen’s arms to whack him square in the face with a pillow. Once again, Hoike raises his head and then, wrongly determining there is no threat, goes back to sleep. 

“Ya know,” he begins, fighting off Plumeria quite valiantly for a man with one arm and one leg. Hoike snoozes and Soap, well, Soap’s never stood up to Plumes anyway. “Like, love your body…”

“Everyday?” Wen completes, amused. She grabs Plumeria by the waist and swings her onto her lap, nuzzling into her. She fights against Wen for a moment before giving up, sagging backward to loop an arm around the older woman’s neck. 

“Yeah. But. You look pretty with short hair.”

“Oh,” she responds after a moment. In the flashing lights, he can see her blush all the way up to her ears. 

“Oh, wow, you could fry an egg on that,” Plumeria comments, before gladly hiding Wen’s face against her chest. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Do you smoke?” she asks, tapping another needle into his thigh. They do nothing for his ankle, but work moderately well for his knee, so might as well. 

“Huh? Oh, not really. ‘S expensive. Been usin’ one carton for ‘bout a year now,” he explains. She straightens out of a crouch and sits on the other end of the couch so she won’t jostle him. “D’ya smoke?”

Her expression doesn’t change. Instead, he watches her shoulders drop by a millimeter and one foot tuck behind her ankle. She starts to lightly sway her thumbs side-to-side, which she only does when she’s thinking. 

Suddenly, she twists towards him. 

“I wasn’t — ignoring you. I wasn’t,” she says anxiously. “I’m just —”

“— thinkin’, I know,” he chuckles. He reaches out to take one of her hands and interlace their fingers. He can probably count the number of times they’ve held hands. “Ya want five minutes?”

“I — I just need three.”

“Three minutes, then,” he nods. Leans back and closes his eyes so he can enjoy the feeling of her thin fingers fidgeting slightly. Her thumb starts to sway again, moving over his skin in small, soft strokes. There’s the  _ tip, tip, tip  _ of a clock somewhere to his left. He smiles, like an idiot, pants around his ankles so the needles wouldn’t shift with the pull of the fabric. 

“I don’t smoke…?”

“‘S that a question?”

“I don’t smoke,” she says firmly. 

“I see,” he says the same way she does, with her syllables rounded and perfectly timed. He laughs at the flat look she gives him. 

“I don’t smoke, but… cigarettes were used as currency in prison. I used to collect them to trade away.”

“For what?”

“Ramen, mostly. I was hungry.”

“The fuck? Didn’t they feed ya?”

“They did. Still, I was hungry I suppose.” She looks away. Her arm comes up to her stomach, as if she remembers a pinching pain embedded into her psyche. “Gummy would always put some money into my account when she visited. Ah, but I suppose that money should have gone to your siblings.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he only clutches her hand tighter, trying to pull her back from this place he can’t see or reach.

“Before, when Akari’s shit dad came over… Would you have killed him?”

“Of course, if that was the better option.”

“Even if it meant goin’ back?” he asks. He can’t see her expression, only the curve of her cheek, the way her jaw tenses, the slight rustle of her toes rubbing against the back of her pants. “‘S this a twenty-minute question?”

“...Twenty-two, I think.” She faces him, unsure, biting her lip. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and uses his uninjured leg to kick his pants off the rest of the way. Just him in his briefs, sitting in a wooden room that didn’t even have metal forks, sniffing the dallyrag she used in her shampoo, holding her hand so she wouldn’t float off, untethered, into whatever cacophony of a busy intersection she was so set on walking into.

Some time passes. Could be five minutes, could be twenty. He never timed her, of course. But she seemed to time herself, accurately judging how many seconds had passed, sometimes without a watch. 

Some time passes. She stands up, pulling out of his grasp, and instead of speaking, carefully,  _ carefully _ , lowers herself next to him, slotting herself under his arm and curling into him, head on his shoulder, folding her knees to her chest. For a moment, he doesn’t dare to move or breathe. 

Is this what it was like? When Soap first scuttled out of his burrow to snack on a shred of fish directly from his hand? Guzma doesn’t remember. He only knows to wrap his arm around her shoulders, his hand coming up to blindly trace her collarbone. 

_ Nah _ , he thinks,  _ this is probs better. _ Buries his nose into her hair to kiss behind her ear. 

“I would have killed them, yes,” she says quietly, reaching over to collect the needles from his knee and thigh, one by one. “Better me than you.” She folds them into a piece of paper and places the packet to the side so she can throw it out later in that eye-wateringly red bin in the bathroom. 

He bonks their heads together.

“Ya gonna leave me?”

“Am  _ I _ going to leave  _ you _ ?”

“‘S what I said.”

“No. Not if I can help it, no.”

“Then you should probs not bank on goin’ back to jail so easily,” he comments, his voice level. She pulls away to look at him, and he stares back, raising an eyebrow. “We’re in this together, yeah?”

“I — yes.”

“Promise?” He holds the back of two of his fingers to her lips and  _ oh _ , this, this is something older than them, their schools, the beginnings of their family lines. Maybe Tapu Bulu wrested the gesture out of the sea when he swathed Ula’ula with a blanket of greenery, thousands of years ago. Guzma watches her expressions whirl through a kaleidoscope until, finally, she presses her mouth to his black-polished nails. He transfers that soft feeling to his own lips, an exchange. 

“Promise,” she agrees and leans in first to kiss him. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“Yo.” Guzma opens the door and then scowls at the bowl of cut strawberries in front of her. “D’ya eat anythin’ else besides fruit? Are ya a fuckin’ bug?”

“It would explain why you like me so much,” she responds breezily, setting aside the paper she was reading. “Good afternoon.” She’s still in her whitecoat. 

He hands her the envelope he brought. Squints at the title of the paper,  _ The Tapu Village Equation: An Assessment of the Economic Value Placed on the Ecological.  _ He knows every word in that sentence, but the order it’s placed in confuses him.

She opens the packet, equally puzzled. 

“What is this?” she asks. 

“STD stuff. All ten tests.”

She rifles through them quickly before standing up and walking to her room. He considers following her, but shrugs and sits in the chair she just vacated, stuffing two strawberries into his mouth. 

“Here you go,” she says, returning, placing a similar envelope in front of him while he swallows. 

“What’s this?”

“My STD results,” she says. He looks up at her, incredulous. She ducks her head. “Um. To keep the relationship balanced. It wouldn’t be fair if you were the only one… that…” She trails off as he stands, easing off her coat and laying it over the back of the chair. “You haven’t opened it.”

“Why’d ya be showin’ me if you weren’t clean?” he chuckles, listening to her breath hitch as he slides his hands under her shirt, touching the warm skin of her waist. They dance a half-step retreat until he can cage her against the wall.

“I — I’m only on break.”

“How long d’ya have?” He kisses her before she can answer, because _Bulu,_ he hasn’t gotten to make her cum, hasn’t gotten to do _anything_ , since before that night on the roof. For a while, he’s only been wanting those moments at 3AM, kissing her back to sleep from her brief consciousness, her hand drowsily touching his dick while he patted long lines down her chest. But now, he wants something different, and it wrenches open a gaping hole in his ribs that he wishes her ribs could align and fill. 

“Don’t ask a question if you aren’t looking for an answer,” she laughs, breathless, when he finally pulls back. Her arms slide around his neck, fingers scratching fondly at his undercut. 

“Bet I can make ya cum in twenty,” he murmurs against her mouth, swiping a tongue over her lips. Pinap berries. Salt. The strawberries she just ate. 

“And yourself?”

He laughs, popping the button on her slacks and working them down over her hips. Distances himself just enough to shove them around her thighs before crushing into her again. 

“Five, honestly. Probs gonna cum as soon as I put it in, but if ya tell that to anyone, I’ll fuckin’ cry.” He doesn’t bother with her underwear, just shoves them to the side to run a finger up her slit and circle the little nub at the top. She gulps in a breath, bucking her hips, but he stops, drawing back. “You okay?”

“Pardon?”

“Ya don’t sound…” he considers the word “normal” before swapping it out. “Ya don’t sound comfortable.” 

“I’m nervous.” 

He softens at that, kissing her gently, his tongue slick and hot against hers. Lets her grind against the thigh he has wedged between her legs. 

“Why? We’ve fucked before. Want me to use a condom? ‘S not a big deal.”

“No, it’s — it’s not the condom… Just, this is different.”

“Yeah? How?”

She looks up and holds his gaze, surprising him. One second. Two. Looks away, ears red. 

“It’s different,” she whispers. “I want you to watch me, and — it’s not — it’s just  _ different. _ ”

“I always watch ya,” he whispers back, but understands. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep the wrong words from spilling out of his mouth and eyes. “Want to top?”

“What? You don’t like that.” The concern on her face makes him smile and press his forehead to hers. This time, she only pauses for half a second before inhaling. 

“Could ya keep your hands behind your back?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let’s try again.” He leads her to the couch. Sits and takes a stable breath, closing his eyes. He gets the flash of blond hair and the slight sting of nails, but the rest of Lusamine doesn’t surface. Can’t. Not when he opens his eyes to see Wen standing in front of him, worried, the muted colors of her living room washing away any residue of the pristine, white walls in his memory. Not when he helps her straddle his lap, smelling like dallyrag and bittermint and that one vine he would pick off the forest floor after she tore it from the canopy of a eucalyptus.

“Guzma,” she frets, keeping her hands behind her back. 

“Wen,” he teases and kisses her again, pulling her slacks off the rest of the way until he can squeeze the muscle in her thighs. Pulls her underwear off with some creative maneuvering while he’s at it. Pulls off her shirt as well, so he can slide his hands down that expanse of scarred, brown skin.

“You still have your clothes on,” she states. The hickies on her chest have started to fade a little.

“Yeah. ‘M a kinky lil’ boy.”

He loves the laugh-moan she makes when he slides two fingers into her, teeth clenched like any sound is a sin. Watches her shudder, head falling forward, some strands of her hair falling free from the pins. The walls of her cunt clamp down when she grinds her clit against his palm. 

“You’re tight,” he says, sucking a spot between her breasts.

“I’m nervous,” she repeats.

“I like this better though.” He adds another finger to watch her gasp at the stretch. 

“W-Why?”

Guzma shrugs. 

“‘Cause it feels like you’re finally here.” He nudges the fingers of his other hand into her mouth when it opens, then bites her breast while he curls the fingers buried inside her. He doesn’t think he can get any harder than when he hears her wail, lips kept open by his hand. But before she can cum, he yanks out his fingers, pulls his sweats down over his aching cock, and thrusts into her, once, twice, until she squeezes down on him in a silent orgasm, arms taut in the effort of keeping her hands behind her back. 

And,  _ oh,  _ she feels amazing, her cunt trying to wring out his dick, wet and hot around him without that layer of rubber separating them. He groans, riding out the pulses of her orgasm, fucking into her as long as he can until she collapses onto him, panting. 

“Good girl,” he says, trembling when she clenches down at his words, her hips snapping forward like she can’t help it. He’s still hard, twitching inside her. “You’re my lil’ cock warmer. D’ya like bein’ split open on my fat prick? ‘S that what ya like?” When she doesn’t reply, he lifts her hips and slams up into her, watching her toes curl and her back arch into a beautiful curve. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” she mumbles, face flushed in embarrassment, then whines when he grabs a bruise into her hip bones so he can thrust into her. 

“Good girl,” he says again, lower, hoarser, watching her face scrunch up. “Ya think you can cum again?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” she gasps. Moans when he rubs a thumb into her clit. He fucks her in earnest now, chasing his own end, snagging her hair and wrenching her head to the side so he can bite into her shoulder. 

She cums at the feeling of him spilling into her cunt, at the smell of his strawberry-flavored exhale. For a moment, he doesn’t hear anything except the frantic song of his name and the rustle of his clothes on her bare skin. If Arceus decided to stamp him out of existence right here, he probably wouldn’t mind. But then again —

He untangles her hands behind her back and brings them up to wrap around his neck so he can massage her sore arms. And when she laughs, he finally,  _ finally _ feels like he’s holding her, all of her. Finally gathers together all the frayed edges of the cloth she’s cut out of instead of the half-silhouette she was before. When she looks at him, blunt nails digging into his shoulder, he finally feels she’s  _ seeing _ him, not through and away, not ten years into the past or twenty years into the future. Just here. Just now. Just the two of them, still joined together, sticky with sweat.

“Guzma?”

“Fuck, sorry. Pussy so good, I passed out for a second.”

“...Right,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. He cackles and flashes a shit-eating grin, which makes her squint her eyes, suspicious.

“D’ya like bein’ my lil’ Twinkie?”

“ _ Right _ ,” she says, pulling off him so she can stand, grimacing at the cum that drips down her thigh. He wishes he had enough time to pin her on a table and eat the rest out of her. “ _ Hey _ .” She points at him as he blinks innocently. “Don’t… you’re making that face.” 

“What face?”

“The one you make when you’d prefer to have sex again. Don’t think about that and come urinate.”

“I’ve never made a face in my  _ life _ ,” he emphasizes, bringing a hand to his chest in mock piety, before kicking off his pants and briefs so he can follow her to the bathroom. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“When ya killed him,” Guzma speaks into the darkness, “the asshole on the bridge, did ya get nightmares after?” He almost thinks she’s asleep; he can’t see her in the darkness of his room, the moon shrouded by the blue-black thunderclouds that roll in once in a while. But he hears the pattern of her breath change slightly, and waits. 

“I need five days,” comes the reply. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” He gives a goodnight kiss to the nape of her neck, then settles into his pillow. He falls asleep, easily, despite the thunder. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

He hears her knock on the doorframe of the kitchen, because nobody else in this goddamn house would knock except her. 

“Wen!” Ava exclaims. 

“Hi, Wen!” Akari chirps, “Want some dinner? Boss is making pad thai.”

“Not your Boss,” he says reflexively, tossing the noodles and vegetables to coat them evenly in the sauce. 

“No, thank you. I was just stopping by.”

“Ayyy, more for us,” Noah says and yelps when Guzma pinches his cheek, placing the wok on a potholder in the middle of the table. 

“Where’s your sis?”

Noah shrugs, reaching for his chopsticks. Guzma stops him with another pinch-and-pull. 

“C’mon, Boss! Am I my sister’s keeper?”

“Don’t quote your mom’s shitty cult stuff at me. And not your Boss. Text her.” He takes off his apron and slings it across the back of Junu’s chair, who focuses wholeheartedly between eating and refusing to look at Wen. “Whassup?”

“I wanted to pick up some things from Malie tomorrow and Gummy gave me a list of things she needed to stock up on. Would you and Soap like to come?”

“A’ight. We can steal that shitty Kahuna’s pager.”

“Or, we can ask him,” she laughs, plucking a piece of cabbage off his shirt. “Tomorrow morning at 10, then?”

“Yup.”

“It’s a date,” she winks. 

He watches her leave, frozen to the spot, not quite believing what he’d just heard. There’s a flash of warmth that bubbles up from his stomach to his chest, radiating outward like he’d swallowed the sun. The faint sound of ringing crops up behind him. 

“Hello?” Naomi answers, her voice tinny through the speakers. 

“Dinner’s ready. Also, you owe me ten bucks,” Noah proclaims, hanging up immediately after. When Guzma whirls around to glare at him, Noah cheerfully shoots him a double thumbs-up, chopsticks in his mouth. Junu stabs through a noodle. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: crossing set boundaries, sex mention, attempted murder, mentions of unrepented murder,

“Hey, ladybug. You’re — holy shit, lookin’ cute today.” He stands and immediately beelines to where she fidgets with the bracelet on her wrist, startled. 

“Guzma! You’re here. Thank — how long have you been out here?”

“Like twenty minutes, no sweat. C’mon lemme look at ya.” The blue of her shirt is the same hazy steel-blue of the summer sky over anywhere other than Po Town. It’s tucked into a pair of khakis that end mid-shin. Leather slippers. He slides his hands around her waist and corrals her under the awning to protect her from the drizzle. “Never seen ya in that color before. Never seen ya in  _ any _ color before, actually.”

“That seems a bit hypocritical. You’re not in sweatpants today.” She plucks at his black shorts and then at his white tee. He watches the way her eyes flick over the inch of his tattoos that peek out from under his sleeves. 

“Eyes up here,” he smirks.

“Are you wearing your expensive eyeliner?”

“Course I am! ‘S date night! Day.”

“You look nice,” she says, tracing the piercings in his ear and then the frame of the aviators that push back his hair. “You always do.”

“I. Thanks.” The back of his hand comes up to cover his face as he furiously begs his body not to blush like some sort of idiot. 

“Oh, you brought your credit bracelet?” She frowns, holding up her own wrist to show him the thin stripes of black and white metal, probably also a present from Plumeria. They match. “You should let me pay today.”

“What? Over my dead body; it’s our first  _ date _ date. Lemme pay.”

“It makes more sense if I do. Gummy told me all the household expenses are taken from your account.”

“And  _ you _ haven’t even looked into health insurance.”

“Guzma,  _ I _ would be who I went to see if I got sick,” she laughs, and he joins in only because he likes the way her white teeth flash against her tan skin without a hand to politely block it away. “Should we take turns, then? I can pay today and you can pay next time.”

“Or we can flip that,” he argues, pretending his breath didn’t stutter at her cavalier mention of a next date. 

“Want me to flip a coin?” comes the tired voice behind them. Nanu lowers himself into the chair on his lanai with a sigh. “What are you flirting so early in the morning for? I called your Rides, so you better decide quickly.”

“How come I gotta see your old ass face today, shitty Kahuna?”

“What, no word of thanks?”

“I’ll thank ya after ya put your other foot in that grave you’re standin’ — oof!” He rubs his side after Wen jabs him in the kidney. 

“That’s my patient you’re talking about,” she says, then bows a full ninety degrees. “I thank the Kahuna of Ula’ula, blotter of the stars, fo—“

“Never mind,” Nanu interrupts, cringing. “The kid’s right. No thanks required. My good deeds speak for themselves.” He rolls his shoulders back and gives an exasperated scratch to the meowth that has somehow climbed onto his lap. His eyes give Guzma a once over. “What, not bringing your jacket, kid?”

“Fuck you, old man.”

“Don’t you want to offer Wen a jacket when she gets cold? We both know she has the temperature preference of an old lady,” Nanu snickers. The meowth in his lap yowls and plants both of his paws directly onto the Kahuna’s face, claws extended. “Ow.”

“My, my,” Wen smiles, “is that the caffeine withdrawal talking?” 

Before Nanu can bicker back, there’s the beat of great wings, then a blast of heat when a charizard roars. She thumps into the ground, closely followed by another. They both shake the droplets of rain off their smooth scales and glare into the sky, as if that would intimidate the clouds into submission. The clouds, of course, don’t seem to care. 

“Alright, alright, get out of here,” Nanu waves them away. “Oh.” He fishes a coin out of his pocket and flips it high into the air, glittering. Catches it. “Wen pays.” 

Guzma gives him the finger.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Malie City is staunchly sunny, the cobbled road already hot under their feet, even before noon. Johto architecture means no giant, sprawling tents that they can hide under; just ornate buildings, somewhat shimmering in the heat wave. In the distance, a Bell Tower knock-off overlooks the Gardens, roofed in that same inside-outside-inside-outside shingle pattern that every one of the buildings here have. And it’s not  _ truly _ crowded — not really, not yet — but the tourists milling around open doors take up all the shade under the narrow awnings.

“Ah, fuck,” Guzma says, sliding his shades on. “‘S bright.” Their clothes will probably dry within twenty minutes, maybe thirty if they find a patch of shade he can bully someone out of. He watches Wen ruffle the water out of her hair before smoothing it back and pinning it into place. In the light, the teeth marks and scratches and scars on her arms stand out more than they usually do. “What’s in your bag?”

“Medicine. To sell.” She clips the last pin into place.

“Gimme. I’ll carry it.”

“It’s alright, thank you. I padded the bottles, but they’re still glass.” She sighs. “Could we eat first?”

“A’ight, whatdya want?”

“Anything by the Gardens.”

“Why, ya wanna do touristy stuff?”

“No, but I’d like to see if the Raichu’s Tail they planted last year has spread. I think if I show them my license, they’ll let me have some.”

He laughs.

“A’ight, nerd. Let’s get tacos.” He starts to walk when he feels a pull on his shirt. When he looks back, he sees her offering her hand.

“It’s a date, yes?” she asks, smiling. He smiles back, but gently pushes her hand away. 

“...’S better if we don’t hold hands here.”

“I see,” she says, syllables rounded and full even when she drops her gaze, and puts her hand on the straps of her backpack. “Lead the way, then.” 

He moves forward, his nails digging into his palm. And, yeah, he’s not wearing the jacket with the giant, red X on the back, but it’s not like it’s exactly difficult to recognize him, even with the change of clothes, even with the sunglasses. The tourists part for him, as they always do, because that’s what you do when a six-foot-six man crosses your path. He doesn’t care about them. It’s the locals he hates. He sees them out of the corner of his eyes, putting their heads together to whisper, lips slightly downturned in the country where everyone is supposed to be happy. He keeps his hands out of his pockets and empty, away from Soap’s pokéball. Listens to Wen’s medicine jars click behind him. His shoulders almost start to curl in when he feels her knuckles slide up his spine, a silent reminder for his posture. So he straightens up, attracting attention, and walks.

“They got basculin tacos here, or wishiwashi, if ya like that better.” He says, stopping in front of a store with a faded wooden sign that tilts slightly to the left. The writing on the chalk menu outside is blocky and straight-foward. “‘S that okay?”

“Yes.”

“A’ight, leggo.” He waits for her to open the door, but she doesn’t move. “Ya good?”

“Yes?”

“...Are ya waiting for me to open the door?” he asks, brows furrowing. She blinks. Then, in the motion of stepping forward, he catches a glimpse of her flushing, jaw tightening in embarrassment as she grabs the wooden handle and enters the cool interior of a small shop. He doesn’t say anything and lets her focus on the menu until the blush fades from her skin. “Sorry. I don’t really do that door opening stuff.”

“I — I wasn’t waiting for you to open it. I mean,” she sighs, dropping into a plastic seat around one of the few small tables. “I was, but not for the reason you think.”

“Yeah?” He moves closer and pulls her head into his side with a gentle hand, looking over the tortilla flavors. She sighs again, then turns so her face is smothered into his belly. He pets the back of her neck, ignoring the prickling stare of the shop owner.

“I was confused. Momentarily.” Her voice is muffled. “I haven’t gone outside in a while and I was... I was waiting for security to buzz the door open, since they’re all auto-locked in case of an escape attempt. I’m sorry.”

“Dunno why you’re apologizin’,” he says lightly. “Sometimes forget your bathroom’s door frame’s too small and bash my head.” He scratches her scalp, still damp. “Whadya want? I’ll order, since you’re payin’.” 

“...Tacos.”

“Yeah, but what kind.”

“Wishiwashi.”

“Wrong answer. Basculin’s better.”

“Then, basculin,” she laughs, pulling away. 

“...Guzma,” the shop owner remarks when he walks up to the counter. His arms are tightly crossed. The other employee watches his hands like a braviary.

“Hey, Mr. Taco-Shop-Owner. Guess ya know me, huh?”

“...Impossible not to.”

“Five basculin tacos. ‘S that a’ight?”

“...Pay first. Then you take your friend and get outta here.”

“C’mon, ‘s hot outside.”

He doesn’t budge, glaring up at Guzma, shoulders squared. Guzma sighs and passes over Wen’s bracelet. The machine beeps.

“This isn’t you.”

“Yeah, it’s fuckin’ obviously hers.”

“Does she know you’re using it?”

“ _ Yes _ , she’s  _ right the fuck over there. _ ”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

“You’re gonna choke, Wenny.”

She swallows two tacos like she’s in a contest and eyes the third until he slides it across the bench for her until finally, her pace slows. The crowd moves around him, giving them a bubble of privacy, here at the center of this pavilion. The perks of being hated, right? He’s not even hungry anymore, but finishes his portion without leaving behind a single shred of lettuce. 

He likes watching her eat, a babble of voices in the background. Beyond, the river sparkles in a million pinpoints of light. Tourists jump in and out of the water, shrieking, ignoring the posted signs to keep out of the river ecosystem. 

_ It’d be nice if she’d only eat what I make for the rest of our lives _ , he thinks, and chuckles dryly at the sudden, irrational thought. She glances at him, using a napkin to wipe off some sauce from her fine-boned wrist. 

“Would you like some water?”

“Yeah.”

She rummages in her bag placed securely between her feet. Hands him a metal bottle, which he twists the cap off to take a long pull. The water’s lukewarm. She drinks from it when he passes it back to her. 

“Indirect kiss,” he grins. 

Her mouth does a funny wiggle before she pulls him in for real one. He thinks about rejecting it. He really does. But in that split-second before she closes her eyes, he sees the amused warmth in her irises and he caves. Kisses her, and lets every pointed gaze fizzle out under the radius of her easy breathing. She pulls away at the flicker of his tongue. 

“Guzma.”

“Just playin’, baby,” he says, sticking out the offending tongue between his teeth. She smiles at that, shyly. Holds out her hand again. He takes it. “Sorry. ‘Bout before.”

She nods and crumples their garbage into the paper bag to toss it at a nearby grimer, who sucks it up eagerly, gurgling. 

“Why do they treat you like that?”

“Gotta bit of a bad rep here. Half of ‘em remember me from the days where I used to graffiti over their walls. Other half knows I worked with Lusamine for that whole fuck up. An’ all of ‘em seen me beating the shit outta one person or another.”

“In a battle?”

“Battle, physically, verbally, everythin’. Anythin’.”

“Is that so? Which half would I be in?”

He leans in to kiss her ear. 

“The half that likes ridin’ my dick ‘til they cry.”

She flinches away, covering her ear ruefully, face red. 

“I’ve never cried in that situation,” she corrects. He gives a lazy grin and lets go of her hand to slide an arm around her waist. Pecks her forehead chastely, like he doesn’t want to go home already and fuck her in her quiet room, away from the hailstorm of judgments that doubles every time he moves. She suddenly barks a short laugh.

“Hm? What’s funny?”

“Ah, it’s not funny but, I think out of the two of us,” her voice drops, flat and quiet, “they’re picking the wrong person to be afraid of.”

“Ha.”

“Guzma! Alola!”

He whips his head up at the sound of that overly familiar greeting, then sighs, closing his eyes, wishing the half-naked man in a lab coat and board shorts striding towards him will go away. Or maybe his stupid glasses will shatter through some divine intervention and drive a shard into his brain and just  _ fucking kill him _ . Guzma immediately smacks away the hand that claps down on his shoulder. 

“It’s been a while, cousin!” Kukui says, happily undeterred. “Howzit, old friend?”

“‘M not your friend. “M also on a date, so can ya fuck off?”

“Yeah? Is this your girlfriend?” He sticks out a hand, which Wen shakes civilly. “Professor Kukui! Thank ya for taking care of my buddy here!”

“Herbalist Wen,” she introduces herself calmly, “It’s an honor to meet you. I enjoyed your paper on the linguistic differences between natural versus man-made attacks.”

“Woo, that’s the paper I wrote with my wife! I’m glad some of my rambling got through to ya. It’s a blessing she even understands what I’m saying, haha! Where do ya work, Wen?”

“Po Town.”

“Po Town?” Kukui tilts his head, confused but still smiling. “Oh, do ya mean Tapu Village?”

“No, I’m an herbalist for the residents of Po Town.”

“I see! I can introduce ya to a pokécenter in Hau’oli if you’re having some trouble finding work!” he offers, reaching out to squeeze Wen’s shoulder. 

She wrenches away from Kukui’s hand and huddles into Guzma’s side. 

“I’m fine, thank you.” Her voice is perfectly pleasant, even if her trembling hand is fisted into the back of Guzma’s tee, keeping him seated. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t touch me so suddenly.”

“Oh! Of course! I’m so sorry,” Kukui apologizes solemnly. “I shouldn't have —“

“It was an accident,” Wen smiles, placating, and Guzma knows, for sure, that her hand on his back is the only thing keeping him from breaking in all of Kukui’s teeth like he did in 9th grade. “What have you been working on recently, Professor Kukui?”

“Ah, I thought I’d have more time after getting the Alolan League established, but I’ve been dealing with the push-back from other nations about our Elite Four. Our League is too new or our Elite Four haven’t been tested enough or blah, blah, blah. Woo, it doesn’t help that it’s impossible to get in touch with Champion Moon these days! But enough about that, yeah. Is your re-licensure exam coming up?”

“In a year. The Alolan exam will be held in Heahea City for this iteration.”

“Sounds like you can make a trip out of it! What about you, cousin? Been doing anything new? How’s that golisopod of yours doing?”

Guzma stares at him. He’s always been this way, waltzing over boundaries, always “teasing, just teasing”, never taking a “no” that wasn’t a right-hook to his stomach. 

“Are ya still talkin’ to your dental surgeon?” Guzma says softly, so the crowd can’t hear him. “‘Cause if not, I’ll help ya two get reacquainted  _ real _ fast if ya  _ don’t _ .  _ Fuckin’ _ .  _ Leave _ .”

The smile that Kukui gives isn’t cheerful or mocking. Just sad. And that somehow makes Guzma angrier. 

“You should stop by sometime. Burnet would love to meet ya.”

Wen stands at the same time Guzma does, cutting in front of him smoothly, blocking his hands from doing anything. They’re both taller than Kukui, though, not by much. 

“I think the library may close soon,” she says, circling Guzma’s wrist with calloused fingers. “We’ll be leaving first, Professor.”

Guzma doesn’t even wait for a response. Just takes all that churning hatred inside him and channels it straight into a lunging stride that only she can keep up with. Some tiny part of him wants to lose her in the crowd. Another, more consuming part of him hears the glass in her bag jingle against each other, and slows so she can walk more gingerly. 

But nothing can stay angry under Alola’s sun, not for long, not with the heat bleaching thin every ounce of any kind of strong emotion. He stops under a palm tree, sweating. Pushes the aviators back onto his head and jumps when a hand touches his back. 

“Your tattoos are showing,” she says, leaning against the low stone wall, her eyes climbing his back where the thin shirt clings to him, semi-transparent with sweat, the black designs on his skin filtering through. “He’s very pushy.”

Guzma snorts. 

“That fucker’s never taken anythin’ seriously in his goddamn life. Borderline bullied me for five fuckin’ years ‘til I rearranged his face in high school. He thought all the times I told him to shut the fuck up were jokes.”

Wen hums, taking a handkerchief and patting his temples, his neck. 

“I regret not being nastier.”

Guzma laughs at that, then sighs, the last of his anger billowing from his mouth and evaporating into the blinding sun. He’s glad he wore the waterproof makeup today. 

“A’ight. Library, you said? Fuckin’ nerd.”

“Ah, I didn’t really want to go to the library. Not today, at least. But I thought that if I’d said we were heading deeper into the Gardens, he might follow us.” She folds the handkerchief neatly, damp side in. “Can we go next time?”

And he didn’t really notice it before because of how fucking nervous he was, but now he sees how she fidgets hopefully, her eyes flitting to his face then away when she mentions a future. Cavalier? Cavalier, who? She’s just as nervous as he was, as he is, standing together with the world watching them. 

He kisses her sweetly. Doesn’t even care anymore. Maybe he’s tainting her, coloring her eventual conversations with anyone in Alola that reads the news. But maybe, maybe they’re both fucked up, black mixing black, sitting safe in the eye of an observing hurricane, yellow sky above. 

“Next time,” he assures. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

They  _ do  _ let her harvest some of the Raichu’s Tail poking up from a rotting log. She drops the cuttings into one of her omnipresent glass bottles. 

“‘S this a flower?”

“Actually, these are all fungi,” she says, gesturing at the little mushrooms clinging to the log.

“Ah, fuck, there’s a pun in here somewhere.”

“Um… all… all of these are fungi, including you?”

“...We can work on it.”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Guzma snags the coupon magazine while Wen coaxes Soap into a crouch so she can snap the giant cooler into place. It sits right after his head, so that, when he stands, it only tilts slightly backward. He chitters, faking annoyance, probably so the bastard can preen under Wen’s citrus-scented pats. 

“Don’t fall for it. ‘S a spoiled brat.”

“But who did the spoiling?” Wen inquires, smoothing a cloth down the delicate scales around Soap’s eyes. Guzma clears his throat, and she grins. “I’ve never seen this renting system before.”

“Oh, yeah. Think ‘s pretty new? We just bring it back with us an’ send it back through a Ride. ‘S linked to my bracelet so if I, dunno, drop it into the ocean, the mart’ll charge.”

She inspects the straps of the harness, but her eyes look like she’s a million miles away. Or maybe she’s just thirty miles away, five years back, wondering what was changing while she waited for locked doors to be buzzed open. 

“Wanna look at coupons with me?” he says, tugging her back to now. 

“...I’ve heard you’re a coupon master from Toto.” 

“The one an’ only,” he laughs, flicking open the cheap, recycled paper and rereading the sections he’s already circled. “Honestly, the only reason I go ‘s ‘cause Plumes buckles and buys a plushie every fuckin’ time. Also, I’m the only one in that clownhouse who reads the fuckin’ news.”

“Does the news have much to do with couponing?”

“Well, it won’t impact household shit ‘less the factories in Galgar explode or somethin’. But if it’s stormin’ near Akala for a while, then veggies won’t get sent, which means whatever the Mart has is gonna get its prices jacked up. Just simple stuff.” He rolls up the newspaper and bops her on the head. “Easier than day tradin’ shit, at least, thank Arceus. C’mon, let’s go buy, like, eight bags of bread.” 

“Actually, let’s separate for a bit. I want to sell my medicine.”

“A’ight. I’ll be by the giant fuckin’ golisopod cooler,” he says, slapping Soap’s shell like a roof of a car. 

He’s memorized the layout by now, and the route he has to take. Frozen veggies on the bottom of the crate so they don’t melt. Fifty-pound bags of beans, rice, oats. Off-brand cereal. Meat is stupid expensive, so eggs. Basically shovels the entire canned tuna section into the box. Bread, of course. Almond butter, because Ke’awe’s allergic to peanuts. Raspberry jam, because who the fuck gets anything else. A braid of garlic. Period supplies, shampoo, and soap: check.

He spends most of his time scanning the rack spices and sauces, running through all possible discount combinations, removing a theoretical tin of cocoa from the total, adding a theoretical bottle of oyster sauce, calculating, calculating. Soap hates this part. Sometimes, he’ll lie flat on the ground, looking like a colossal wimpod. Just him and his squatting owner, taking up the entire aisle so people have to walk around, disgruntled.

They find Wen in the small divide between the pokécenter and the mart, organizing her backpack on a tiny coffee table, meticulously wrapping each empty glass with a cloth. 

“Did ya sell your stuff?”  
“Yes! They bought all of it,” she replies, pleased. 

“Cool. How much did ya make?”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Oh,  _ shit _ . For plants, huh?”

“For  _ medicine _ ,” she chides.

“‘M kiddin’,” he teases. He leans in to kiss her when he feels a barb on the back of his neck. Turns to see two pokénurses inspecting him. “Fuck, d’they think I’m stealin’ somethin’?” She follows his gaze, perplexed, then squeezes the back of a chair, her nails raking across the surface with an audible crackle.

“They’re not looking at you,” she remarks, before setting the customer service smile into place when one of them walks over. “Janna, it’s good to see you again.” 

“Hey, Wen,” the nurse greets, crossing her arms. “Liam and I thought we recognized you. Just wanted to say hi. Wow, did you grow?”

“I don’t think that’s possible. This is my boyfriend, Guzma.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Janna says quietly, not bothering to pretend he isn’t on an old “Employee’s Beware!” sign somewhere in the breakroom. “I heard you… uh…”

“Were charged with involuntary manslaughter?” Wen completes, picking up the end of the sentence. “And assault.”

“Right. What have you been up to?” Janna asks. Wen picks up a stray bottle and shakes the powder inside. “Oh, cool. Are you assisting the practice up in Tapu Village?” 

“No, I made these.”

“Oh, I see. Practicing for the exam?”

Within the space of an inhale, Guzma pays attention to the rigid line in Wen’s shoulders.

“No. I passed the exam in prison. I’ve been an herbalist for four years.”

Janna bursts out in an uncertain laugh, before stilling. 

“They only pass ten people for that, though?”

“What are you saying, Janna?” Wen’s smile grows wider, like a knife-edge sliding in.

“No, I didn’t mean —”

“I know you didn’t,” Wen interrupts, cooly. Janna laughs again, brows furrowing. 

“Well… Liam and I work here, so feel free to stop by.”

Wen says nothing. Janna gives a hesitant half-bow before turning and walking back to Liam. Whirls around and plants both hands flat on the table.

“Today’s not our day, huh?” Guzma says, reaching out slowly so she can stop him if she wants. She doesn’t. He digs his thumb into the muscle of her shoulder, using the same prying motion she does when he’s facedown in bed at 1 AM, unable to sleep. 

“You’re very popular,” she responds dully. “How do they know you?” 

“Uh, could be the Aether thing. Could be from me pickin’ up one of the sibs when they start a fight they can’t win. Could be both.”

She closes her eyes. Her fingers twitch, so he knows she’s counting. 

“I want to go home,” she says, voice impossibly small. He takes her hand. It’s cold.

“Same. Let’s just pay an’ bounce, yeah?”

She takes a breath. Opens her eyes. Relaxes her shoulders. 

“Yeah.”

“Stay here an’ chill a bit, a’ight?”

“Okay.”

When he moves out of earshot, he sags into Soap, who clicks a complaint. “Look, ya big baby. If ya help out today, I’ll give ya half a fuckin’ tuna can when we get home.  _ Half _ .” The golisopod perks up at the word and clacks his claws together in a weird applause. Happily ducks when Guzma tells him to so the cashier can start tagging the items in the crate. 

Guzma tallies the total in his head, fingers moving to slide the beads in an abacus he can’t seem to erase from his muscle memory. The cashier is off by $26.08.

“Ya made a mistake,” Guzma states. 

“Don’t think I did,” the man growls. “Should I call secur—”

“Just fuckin’ — here.” He reaches over to scroll down his receipt and points at the extra bag of rice before the cashier can hit the alarm button. “Look.”

He swipes his bracelet through the machine, takes his revised receipt, and starts back towards Wen. 

“Want some advice?” he mumbles to Soap, who looks at him like the can of tuna will fall out of his mouth. “Don’t do date and supplies on the same —”

“Don’t  _ touch _ me,” Wen says in the closest thing to a shout he’s ever heard pour out of her mouth. He’s not close enough to hear what the other nurse — Liam? — says, but he does see the nurse’s hand reach towards the bag on her shoulder. Guzma breaks into a sprint as Wen takes Liam’s wrist and twists it, sweeping his feet out from underneath him. In some knock-off version of a slow-mo reel, he sees her hand dart down to where she usually keeps her knife, finds it missing, catalogs the nearest weak point, and targets the neck. He’s right on time to catch her hand from plunging down to dislodge the nurse’s trachea. Wen whirls on him, raising a fist. “Don’t — !” Sees it’s him. Lowers her hand and lets him peel her off the man groaning on the floor. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

They only let her go when two different witnesses say that, yes, Liam did illegally ask for her herbalist license. Yes, he did try to confiscate what he thought were stolen goods. Yes, she did warn him twice. The manager glances at Guzma and asks for her license anyway, which he’s allowed to do. Guzma fishes it out of her bag to hand it to him, keeping one arm around her waist in case her shuddering turns into assault. Of course the license is fucking real. 

He guides her to the side of the road, into the shade where she can flex and unflex her hands without trying to kill someone. He knows she’s counting. The veggies will be fine; they won’t defrost for a couple of hours a least. They’re fine. She’s fine. He sits next to her, and waits. 

He doesn’t time her, never does, and eventually, she raises her head. The smile on her face is like  _ nothing _ he’s seen before. Eyes wide, teeth bared, pupils boiling pinpoints of fury. It’s similar to the expression she had when they had tried to punch each other into unconsciousness. It’s similar, but not the same. 

“Love ya,” he says, not touching her. She barks out an incredulous laugh. Slams her fist into the ground again and again until her knuckles are split and bruised. 

“Ah,” she whispers, dropping her head back on her knees. “I could have killed him. I could have killed him.  _ I could have killed him. _ ”

“I know.”

“I should have brought my knife.”

“‘M glad ya didn’t.”

She laughs again, hollow. 

She’s quiet for a long time.

“You know,” she says, lifting her head on her inhale, “our family lawyer argued that I had pushed him only to disengage, for self-defense. He tripped backward on one of the metapods and fell. And that  _ is  _ what happened.” She stretches out her legs. “But the difference between a voluntary and involuntary charge is the intent to kill. And that night, when I saw him dropping pokémon over the bridge like they were rocks, when I pushed him, I prayed he would just  _ die _ . If he hadn’t fallen, I would have done it myself. And I would have killed his friend if my driver hadn’t pulled me off.” She turns to face him. Some of the wildness has drained out of her eyes. She’s missing a bobby pin. “Do you remember? You asked me five days ago, if I had nightmares over killing him.

“Yeah.” 

Soap crawls closer to rest one claw on her lap. 

“I had one. Only one. Then, I slept fine,” she answers. She scratches around the base of his claws. Guzma knows he can touch her again, so he taps her arm, carefully, then places his hand on hers when she seems alright, avoiding the injuries on her knuckles. “The man I killed, he’d done that before, dropping pokémon off the bridge. Spinaraks, metapods, rattatas. But since they were all considered pests, the police wouldn’t  _ do _ anything. Even though, sometimes, the spinaraks wouldn’t die from the fall. They have a hard exoskeleton, and since they’re light, they wouldn’t die, but —” She closes her eyes again. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine —

“I would kill him again,” she states, calm. “He wasn’t a person to me.”

“Yeah.”

Tourists pass by, registering them as parts of the scenery. Just a couple lounging in the grass after shopping with their baby of a golisopod.

“You’re right. It’s fortunate I didn’t bring my knife today.”

“Ya promised, yeah?”

She opens her eyes and he repeats the gesture he showed her last time, curled up together on the couch, needles in his leg. Brings two fingers to her lips, transfers to his own. 

“I did promise,” she says, and counts all the vowels she can see in the surrounding signs. 

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

Soap trundles up the stairs of the ferry terminal, probably thinking of all the ways he can wheedle half a can of tuna into a whole can. They follow him, slower, their hands interlaced. Her other hand is wrapped in the clean bandages she always carries in her first aid kit. 

“Gimme the bag.”

“It’s not heavy.”

“I know.”

She passes it over to him and he carefully slings it over his shoulders, adjusting the straps so they won’t dig into his chest. 

“Oh.” She steps up on a cratered stair and turns to face him, smiling. “We’re the same height now.” 

It’s true. 

But the thing is — they’ve always been the same height. Even at an inch shorter than him, he’s always looked at her. Not up to her, or down to her. At her. Watching her bang her head into the same door frames as he did. Sprinting forward and looking back to see her right behind him, keeping his pace and laughing.

So even if she stands on this broken half-stair, now matching up exactly with him, eyes mathematically level, he doesn’t see anything different. The late afternoon sun blazes behind her, igniting her silhouette. The unruly strands of her hair look like candy floss. 

They’re equal, like two spotlights on the same run-down stage, continuing the script only for each other in front of an endless auditorium of vacant seats.

“Hey, ladybug. C’mere and kiss me.”

She obliges. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the 16 of you that got this far.   
> the next part will be what happens after this. Established relationship, etc.   
> not sure when I'll get to it, but I'll post when it's all done. 
> 
> thanks for reading and hope u loved these two :)


End file.
